


The Maximoffs: A drabble Collection

by samwysesr



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Incest, Twincest, consanguinity, maxicest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 43,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwysesr/pseuds/samwysesr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles/one shots based around prompts and requests I receive on my tumblr account. Every chapter will revolve around the twins having a romantic relationship, so if twincest bothers you, I'd suggest you move on. ;o)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. J E A L O U S Y

   

Prompt: can u make a jealous!wanda drabble? [ANONYMOUS]

w/c: 2,181

* * *

 

I have a confession to make—one about my innermost feelings. Will it shock you? Perhaps, but somehow… I think it will not. I  think it is something most of you will understand, especially if you have been fortunate enough to feel the sweet sting of Cupid’s arrow pierce your heart. After all… sometimes, love makes a fool of even the wisest—but that is a small price to pay for the rewards that it brings.

My Pietro, he is very possessive of me. Territorial, as well. He makes his claim known whenever he can, in a thousand subtle little ways. My secret is that I share those characteristics too—though in truth, I was not always this way. I can remember a time when I could easily picture him taking another as his wife and having a family of his own; however, the line between us blurred and grew murky—like watercolor paints blended under a skilled artist’s hand. What was once black and white became something in between—a shade of gray that was the combination of the two; my sweet brother became my Beloved… and that was when I noticed the first stirrings of jealousy rearing its serpentine head inside me.

We were sixteen when it happened; I remember walking down the street in Novi Grad, noticing the way other girl’s eyes would follow his tall, graceful form. It angered me, that they would be so forward—watching him with hungry eyes when I was by his side; I would glare at them, taking his hand—moving closer, so our bodies brushed. That was enough to make most of them drop their eyes—but a brazen few were foolish enough to think they could challenge my claim. They would approach us, with their fluttering eyelashes and coyly smiling mouths, trying to entice him—to lure him from my side. They thought they could supplant me—as if I, his beloved twin could be so easily replaced.

They learned soon enough who held the keys to his heart—exactly who it was that held the other half of his soul. My Pietro… he does not waste words—why should he when an angry look can express just as much? Each and every time one of those girls tried to flirt with him, he would glare at them, pulling me into his arms and pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that set me aflame. He would pull back, leaving me breathless; without fail, I could not resist shooting a look of triumph at whatever girl it was that had tried to steal him away—and always, the results were the same.

“My little jealous love,” he would whisper, his lips caressing my ear, “I see only you, do not fear.”

As time passed, I learned to ignore the flirtatious looks that were thrown his way; I could easily understand why woman would openly stare at him, with their wistful longing expressed so clearly in their eyes—my Beloved is so very beautiful, like a sculpture of some ancient god brought to life. His eyes are deep, and soulful, his mouth is full and lush. His body is tall and strong—his muscles firm and sculpted beautifully. And when he smiles…dear God.. when my Pietro smiles… the world lights up around him. All these things, they are impossible to resist, yes?  To see him is to want him—this I understand. So I ignored the stolen glances and flirtatious smiles—they could not help themselves.

Does that mean that my jealousy is gone? Of course not, and really, I would not want it to be. There are some that would say it is an unhealthy emotion or a sign of mistrust in one’s partner, but they are wrong. I do not—and never have—mistrusted Pietro; he is the one person I trust implicitly. And I do not see how it is unhealthy to fear losing  the only thing that matters in the entire world—it seems only natural, but maybe that’s just me. That is the root of jealousy, you see—fear of losing the one you love.

For me, that fear is a tangible thing; I lived it once, so I know firsthand that to experience it again would end me. When my Beloved fell in battle… I was lost. Although my heart still beat, in a way...  I died too; I did not _live—_ I only _existed_ , and those are two very different things. Every second without him was agony—the world was a dismal, bitter place without my Pietro in it, colored black by my grief. Having experienced that… it made my fear of losing him grow stronger. When he emerged from the Cradle, whole and new, I clung to him and swore that nothing would ever take him away from me again.

Unfortunately that fear… it sometimes controls me. It makes me think foolish thoughts and imagine ridiculous things. Like when Pietro began disappearing for hours at a time. When I physically searched for him, I could not find him—and my mental searches only met with the white static that I so often encounter when he’s using his great speed. It did not help that around that same time… I started to notice he was sharing secretive glances with someone other than me.

They were directed at Natasha Romanoff—and she was giving enigmatic looks right back.

I began searching for _her_   when my Pietro disappeared… and to my horror, I found that she was missing too. They were off somewhere together—I knew it was true, because when he returned to me, he smelled of her perfume. As is our way, I confronted him almost immediately. He laughed and told me I was being silly—that nothing was going on. My heart shattered that he would lie—to me! Of all people!—but I nodded my head, and pretended to believe him.

For two whole weeks they carried on, then one afternoon, she dared to show her face at my door. I stared at her, unable to hide the hatred that welled up inside me, wondering if she was planning to enlighten me as to the affair they were carrying on.

She didn’t—she just held up the garment bag draped over her arm. “There’s a meeting you have to attend. I’m here to help you get ready.”

I glared at her, contemplating melting her from the inside out. “I am perfectly capable of getting ready on my own.”

“Oh? I was under the impression you hadn’t attended many formal dinner parties.” She tilted her head, studying me—as if I were an insect she could crush under her shoe.

I cursed under my breath; I had no experience in such things. “What do I need to do?”

She smiled. “Nothing—I’ll take care of everything.”

For the next hour, we did not speak. She styled my hair in what I grudgingly had to admit was a very elegant upsweep, then made up my face like she was an artist and I was her canvas. By the time she was done and helped me into the fancy dress and high heeled shoes she’d brought, I barely recognized myself. There was no sign of the plain, wild looking girl who had grown up on the streets, with windswept hair and haunted eyes—instead, in the mirror I saw an elegant young woman, with tastefully understated makeup and hair that was shiny and neat.

“Be downstairs in forty five minutes,” she said as she gathered up her things.

I nodded, unable to tear my eyes away from the mirror, wondering what Pietro would think if he saw me. “I will… thank you for your assistance.”

She paused at the doorway to glance back at me. “Wanda… are you upset with me? Is there some problem between us I’m not aware of?”

“I assume you mean other than the fact you are sneaking around behind my back… fucking   _my_ Pietro?” My voice was cold—a complete contrast to the wash of anger that rushed through me. It was the closest I had come to disclosing the truth about our relationship to anyone in our new home.

She stared at me a moment, then arched a single brow. “Is that what you think we’ve been doing?”

I didn’t answer her.

She smiled. “You’re wrong.”

Then she was gone.

My thoughts were murderous as I stormed down the hall—almost breaking my neck on the accursed high heels in the process. I had thought my confronting her would make her admit the truth, but instead she lied to me, just the way he had. I suddenly hated our new home—it was full of lies and betrayal. I was supposed to be able to trust my teammates implicitly—not to be contemplating how many ways I could torture one with my powers.

I was halfway down the stairs when I spotted them in the shadows of the entryway; there stood my Pietro, dressed in a suit, with the Romanoff woman straightening his tie. It was an intimate gesture—the kind of thing a lover or wife is supposed to perform—not some random woman he’d only met recently. It was too much, pushing me past the point of control, setting my anger off. I growled—actually _growled—_ flying down the staircase so fast that it is a wonder I didn’t fall; as my foot hit the bottom step, they both looked up, Pietro smiling broadly as the bitch beside him smirked.

“This is what you do when my back is turned? Take up with someone like her?” I glared at him, clenching my hands into fists—trying to control the urge to physically attack her.

 “Wanda… no. After what happened… when I woke up, I realized there were things—important things—that I’d never done. I made a list of them—”

“And Romanoff was at the top of the list?” I glared at him, crossing my arms.

He shook his head. “No—taking you out on a proper sort of date was.”

“I… what?” I stared at him, confused.

“I didn’t know how to go about arranging one. I wanted it to be special… for you.” He moved closer to me, taking my hand. “I asked Natasha to help me.”

“He even learned how to dance for you,” she offered, “though he tends to forget and move faster than the music.”

“You… you _told_ her? About us?”

“Oh please. I didn’t need him to tell me.” She rolled her eyes, moving over to grab a bouquet of flowers off the table. “Don’t forget these.”

Pietro took them, then offered them to me with a shy smile. “These are for you. They are your favorite, yes?”

As he pressed them into my hand, I stared at the beautiful white roses for a moment, then my eyes flicked over Natasha; she’d turned away and was walking off towards the kitchen I pulled my hand free, following after her. “Romanoff… I apologize for my assumption. And for my behavior.”

She waved me off, not bothering to turn around. “You’re young. Don’t worry about it.”

““My little jealous love,” it was a whisper—arms snaking around my waist, “I see only you, do not fear. Always you… only you, my beautiful Wanda.”

I turned, the plastic wrap around the flowers crinkling as they were squashed between our bodies. “I am sorry, my Pietro… for thinking such a thing—”

“Don’t be, jel'enedra. It makes me feel good… that you love me so much, yes?”

“I love you more than life—you are my world.” I smiled, tilting my face up—brushing his lips with mine.

He made a pleased sound, scooping me up in his arms. “And now we will have a wonderful evening. Dinner.. dancing.. and after that—”

“Put her down—remember what I said about racing around and messing up her hair.”  Romanoff walked past us with a pint of ice cream in her hand, heading back up the stairs. “She has two legs—tonight she uses them. Stark has a car out front waiting to take you wherever you need to go.”

We both tensed at the mention of Stark—a lifelong grudge takes time to get over, and though we are trying, neither Pietro or I are quite to the point of forgiveness yet. But we did not let it spoil our evening—in fact, as we climbed into the back of the shiny black car and Pietro pulled me close to his side, I made a mental note to than Stark for loaning us the limo. It made it quite a bit easier for me to properly apologize to my Beloved for my wicked, jealous mind. I hiked up my skirt and straddled him, trailing my lips along his jaw—my body showing how penitent I was for the angry words I’d given him.

What happened next? Well, _that_ is an entirely different story altogether.

One that I  might  share at a later time.

 

 


	2. M O R A L S

> _Requested Item:   hc/drabble about Steve making a comment about twins relationship/Wandas reaction?  (Anon)  
>  word count: 803 _

* * *

As the twins became more comfortable in their new environment, they let down their guard (just a little), slowly exposing the Avengers to the true nature of their relationship in a hundred subtle, tiny ways. They never came right out and  _said_   they were a mated pair, but they no longer hid away the deep, passionate love they felt for one another. If they felt like sharing a kiss or a cuddle while in one of the common areas of the compound—(like the lounge where the gang gathered to socialize and watch TV, or in the kitchen while cooking a meal)—then they gave in to the urge, ignoring the questioning looks that that the others threw their way.

For the most part, the others began to adjust to what they were seeing, accepting the relationship without verbally mentioning it at all—after all, it wasn’t anyone’s business what type of relationship two adults chose to take part in.

(To be honest, Thor  _never_   really saw an issue with it—marriages between siblings was a common occurrence among gods, and Bruce and Tony’s scientific minds knew that the risk of birth defects weren’t nearly as astronomical as uneducated minds seemed to think.)

The only one who seemed unable to get past the…  _uniqueness_ … of the situation was poor Steve, with his old fashioned, Middle America sense of values and morals. The more he saw, the more he fretted, until finally, one night when a tickle fight between the twins turned into an impromptu make out session—(which Nat and Clint actually thought was rather adorable)—pushed him to the brink and forced him to speak up. He cleared his throat, gently suggesting that their behavior was inappropriate and very unhealthy.

(It was one of those  _‘oh shit!’_   moments, when everyone in the room froze and stared—positive that Wanda was about to nuke him into next week; under normal circumstances, she might have—but she could see in his mind that his comments weren’t made out of maliciousness. He was  _genuinely_   _concerned_   about their well being.)

“Why?” she asked.

Steve blinked. “Why what?”

“Why is it unhealthy,” she asked, speaking slowly—wondering if perhaps he might be a little dim witted.

“Because you’re related. If you have children they’d have… problems.”

She chuckled—a low, rich sound that made a certain part of her brother’s anatomy stand at attention. “You do realize that the Royal Dynasty of Egypt was based on consanguinity, yes? That for generations, the reigning Pharaoh would marry his sister, to keep the blood line pure? In all those marriages, it took  _eighteen generations_  before there was a birth defect, Steve. The history of great nations… Persian… Inca… Japanese… they are full of these relationships with no adverse effects.”

“Well…  _morally—_ ”

“Tell me… you believe in the Bible, yes?” Her voice was calm as she stroked her twin’s hair—hoping to keep him from zipping across the room and punching Steve in the face.

Steve looked confused. “Excuse me?”

“Do you believe the events in the Judo-Christian Bible are real? That they actually happened? She tilted her head, arching an eyebrow.

“Of course. And in Leviticus it clearly states—”

She made a ‘tsking’ sound, cutting him off. “Leviticus is  _theology—_ setting out rules to control the masses. Genesis is  _history_ —it comes  _first._ ”

“That’s true—“

“So you are aware that the Christ’s parents were first cousins? That Abraham’s son Isaac and his grandson Jacob both married cousins too? Or Lot… he married his daughter, creating the Moabite and Ammonite tribes. And Amram… he married his aunt Jochebed.” The complicated names rolled off her tongue, her accent making them musical; she started out small, not wanting to shock him—saving the best for last.

His frown deepened. “Yes but you’re siblings—not cousins.”

“Abraham married his half-sister Sarah, giving birth to a line that gave rise to ten million people. Cain and Seth married their sisters as well—”

“But… you’re  _twins!”_

“Bone of my bone… flesh of my flesh—one into two, two into one,” she smiled sweetly as she stood up, tugging Pietro to his feet. “Eve was created directly from Adam, Steve. They were the same, flesh and bone.  _She was his twin.”_

Steve’s mouth dropped open.

Wanda paused in the doorway, glancing back at him, her lovely features set in an expression of outright pity. “We will continue our fun in the privacy of our suite so as not to upset your… unique interpretation of biblical fact. Have a lovely evening.”

Only when they disappeared from view, did poor Steve snap out of his stupor, muttering, “Well I’ll be damned… she’s right!”

“LANGUAGE!”  The quip came from every single person in the room at the exact same moment.

(They just couldn’t help themselves..)


	3. T L C

> Prompt: Nonsexual acts of Intimacy - Select from the following for my muse to respond to… ♟: Patching up a wound 
> 
> Requested by: walkingitcff (tumblr)
> 
> word count: 603
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

“I swear to God above Pietro, the  next time you pull an idiotic stunt like that I will let you bleed to death!” I scowled, wondering if all fifteen year old boys were as foolish as my twin. I’d sent him to fetch water, only to have him return with his face covered in blood and mumbling about falling out of a tree.

“My foot slipped—ouch!” He winced as I tugged at his hair.

“Stop squirming! It’s hard enough for me to assess the damage with all your hair without you wiggling around!” I huffed at him, trying to see his scalp—not an easy task, since his mop of curly hair kept getting in the way.

Finally spotting the laceration, I felt a little of my anxiety ebb away; the amount he was bleeding made me sure he’d split his skull in two—but the wound was narrow, and not even half the size of my pinky finger. “Okay… this is probably going to hurt.”

He hissed in pain as I swiped it with the wet cloth I’d prepared; I didn’t bother to tell him it would hurt more after I cleaned it—when I doused it with Vodka to kill any germs that might remain. “Are you trying to rip my hair out?”

I ignored the question. “I don’t know what gets into you sometimes! Climbing trees! What if you’d broken your arm or—”

“There was a little bird, Wanda,” he said peering up at me from under the tangle of his bangs. “A baby. It fell out of the nest. I put it back so it wouldn’t die.”

His words took the wind from my sails, completely erasing the anger I’d felt at the risk he’d taken. I stopped tugging at his hair, my fingers gently combing thru the stubborn strands to hold them out of the way. “That was a very sweet thing to do, my brother.”

His arms slid around my waist, his cheek pressing against my stomach. “I knew it would upset you… if I left it there to die.”

I splashed the wound with the Vodka, dropping my head down to blow gently on the wound to take away the sting—then I pressed my lips against his head in a soft kiss. “Thank you—but Pietro… I would rather the bird die than for you to fall and break  _your_   neck. A dead bird would make me sad… but a dead brother? I would stretch out beside your dead body and lay there until I was dead too.”

He tilted his head, peeking up at me from the corner of his eye. “Are you finished patching me up?”

“Yes—there is no way for me to bandage it.” I tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go. “Pietro! I have to put everything away—”

“Later… I still need mending. It hurts—but I think some comforting might make me feel a little better.”

Trying not to smile, I leaned down, brushing my lips against his. “Better?”

“A little… but I did bleed quite a bit, you know. Surely I deserve a bit more comfort than that?”

Before I could answer, he stood up—arms still around my waist; I giggled as my back hit the mattress, reaching up to push his hair out of his face. “Exactly how much comforting do you think you deserve, my brother?”

“I’ll let you know—” he murmured. his soft lips brushing against mine, “—when the pain is gone.”

It took almost the whole afternoon before it ‘felt better’.

I didn’t mind one bit.


	4. S U R P R I S E

> Nonsexual acts of Intimacy - Select from the following for my muse to respond to… ♘: Cuddling in a blanket fort 
> 
> Requested by: walkingitcff (tumblr)
> 
> word count: 646
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> My Pietro… he is a very thoughtful man—and even though his attention span is sometimes short with others, that is never the case with me. The most casual comment I make somehow manages to cement itself in his mind—then he uses the memory to surprise me when I least expect it.
> 
> The most recent instance was when I had a bit of a headache; we were in the communal area of the compound, and it was rather loud—so in passing, I murmured that I sometimes found myself missing the quiet nights we used to have in our old secret place. I completely forgot about having said it a few seconds  later, when he whisked me up in his arms and sped us off to the infirmary to get me aspirin for my head.
> 
> A week later, I walked into our suite, and it had been _transformed._  Candles were everywhere—their flickering flames casting shadows on the walls of the darkened room; all the linens from our bed were strategically draped from the dresser to the closet door, forming the kind of fort we’d once made out of blankets and chairs when we were little. It was constructed around the mattress to our bed—which he’d drug off the box springs and placed in the corner, on the floor.
> 
> “It is nice, yes?” His voice was soft—breath warm on my neck as he whispered in my ear. “It is not our little haven in Novi Grad… but it was the best I could do to recreate it for you.”
> 
> “It is perfect, my love,” I murmured, as I turned  to reward him for his thoughtfulness with a promise filled kiss.
> 
> I didn’t get the chance—he moved before I could, sweeping me up in his arms and crossing the room to deposit me on the mattress. Gazing up at him, watching the candle light play across his skin, I couldn’t help but let out a contented little sigh.
> 
> “Happy?” He smiled—that beautiful, mischievous smile that never fails to make my stomach flutter.
> 
> “I would be happier if this shirt was gone,” I teased, hooking my fingers under the hem of the fabric and giving a little tug. “And the wretched pants too.”
> 
> The air shifted, his body a blur as he removed his clothes in seconds—being thoughtful enough to remove mine too. “Better?”
> 
> I pretended to think about it for a moment as he hovered over me—teasingly tracing my finger along his full bottom lip. “Hmmm… not quite. There is still something missing. I wonder what it could be?”
> 
> He nipped at my finger, then his head ducked down, his lips slowly trailing across my skin. “What about this…” he murmured between kisses, “is this better, my love?”
> 
> “Almost perfect,” I purred, arching up into him, “thought I wonder if perhaps you need something sweet after using so much speed?”
> 
> His head lifted, a brow arching as his eyes filled with heat. “Do you have something sweet for me, my Wanda?”
> 
> Giving him innocent eyes, I wantonly spread my legs and whispered. “My nectar is waiting, moj kolibr.”
> 
> His mouth was on me before I could blink—tongue swiping and probing until I was quivering and begging him to enter me. He teased and tortured me, not granting my request until the hunger he felt was sated.  I was a panting, needful thing— gazing up at him with pleading eyes as he positioned himself between my thighs.
> 
> “I love you, light of my soul.” It was a whisper as he slid inside me.
> 
> We both went still for a hundred heartbeats, drowning in the perfection of joining together—two becoming one, a reflection of our souls.
> 
> Staring into his eyes, I murmured a response to his sweet statement. “And I you, my Beloved. Always.”
> 
> And then… we began to move.


	5. C H O I C E S

> Nonsexual acts of Intimacy - Select from the following for my muse to respond to…♗: Your muse falling asleep with their head in my muse’s lap.
> 
> Requested by: walkingitcff (tumblr)
> 
> word count: 359
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> We were supposed to be watching an instructional video, but I was having a hard time focusing. Pietro had fallen asleep within the first ten minutes, and me?  My mind kept wandering, returning to the past—to the day that had changed our lives. Not the day we’d lost our parents—this was something else _entirely_.
> 
>  At the time, we’d been struggling with our options for several months, trying to figure out what was best.  No matter how many lengthy discussions we had, it was impossible for us to make up our minds. It was a decision we could not reach lightly, because the world is a bigoted place—it does not approve of relationships like ours, so it was easy to imagine their reaction to what we were longing for.
> 
> It wasn’t that we _cared_   what people might thing—but we would not be the only ones subjected to their scorn and ugly words. So even though we both wanted the same thing, we agreed to do all the groundwork first—before we got our hopes up, since if the results were  bad… we wouldn’t be able to proceed.
> 
> Stark got the best geneticists in the field to administer the tests; I think, perhaps, it was his way of trying to make amends for all that we had lost. For weeks we were poked and prodded—the battery of tests was run several times—for safety’s sake. I felt like a pincushion long before they were through… but in the end… in the end,  it was worth it.
> 
> The news… it was good—better than we’d dreamed it would be. In fact… you might go far as to say that the results were a divine blessing—the blood work showed that the choice we’d been struggling so hard to make had been decided   _for_  us by the _ultimate_   authority.
> 
> Tearing my eyes away from the Lamaze video, I glanced down at my lap, running my fingers through my Pietro’s silky hair. His head was nestled in my lap—his face serene, pressed against my swollen belly.
> 
> Soon. Soon we would be three.  
> 
> We would have a family again.


	6. Chapter 6

**T H E  N I G H T M A R E**

 

Requested by: Anon on tumblr

* * *

 

It happens far too often—so often, in fact, that when we crawl into bed, sometimes I pray not to sleep. There’s never a warning or precursor of any kind—it happens suddenly, as if my subconscious suddenly decides to torture me by replaying the events of that horrible, horrible day. One moment I’m wrapped up in a peaceful, happy dream, reliving the best moments of our shared life—then the landscape shifts around me, everything changing and rebuilding right before my eyes.

I’m standing by the key, determined to do my part to keep the enemy at bay. We are arguing—he doesn’t want to leave me—but I am insistent, demanding the go, telling him I’ll be just fine. He speeds off—I watch, completely helpless to alter what is coming, though inside I am begging him to stay. Then the bullets come, tearing into his flesh—some passing straight through, others deflecting off bone. I feel it all—then I feel his soul start to dim, fading away even as his last thought reaches me.

_“I am sorry, my sweet sister. I love—”_

His voice trails off. My soul is in agony—it is reaching out… searching for something that it will never find.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t live.

My Beloved... My Pietro… he is _gone_.

I wake with a scream trailing from my lips , my cheeks wet with tears; in an instant, strong arms encircle me, pulling my against a warm, familiar chest—he knows I need to feel his heartbeat.

“Shhh… you are all right, my love.  I’ve got you. It was just a dream, sister… I am here.”

The small light beside our bed clicks on; I run my hands over his chest, his arms, his body—fingertips trailing over the scars as I catalogue every wound. Each one my fault. Each one preventable, had I not said the accursed word _‘Go’._ I close my eyes, concentrating hard—relaxing only when I feel the familiar brush of his soul against mine; they ebb and flow into each other, two halves rejoined as one.

Still I am trembling—the memory of his death still pressing against me, like a lead weight on my chest. Lips brush mine, warm and tender; hands travel along my skin—comforting caresses that soothe me as he hums a soft melody from our childhood.

“I will never leave you, light of my life. Together forever until our last breath.”

I cuddle against him, letting his kisses and soft, gentle words chase away the specters that haunt me.

A dream—nothing more.

This moment, in his arms….this is reality.

He is here—my Pietro _lives_.

Never again will we be separated.

_I will destroy the world and everything in it to keep him by my side._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten a couple requests from tumblr users to add my head canon 'drabbles' to Ao3 so it will be easier to find them for re-reading; normally I do a completely separate 'collection' for head canons, but for efficiency's sake I'm just going to add them here. Hope no one minds. ;o)

M I N E

[head canon]

* * *

The Avengers have adjusted fairly quickly to the way Pietro is constantly zooming around—what they can’t figure out is why his sister gets so flustered when he starts zipping around her at warp speed. One minute Wanda is fine, laughing and chatting with everyone—but as soon as her brother speeds past, her face turns red and she starts to stammer, completely losing track of whatever it was she was saying.

They’ve asked both twins about it, but neither one will answer; Wanda just blushes and shrugs her shoulders—and all Pietro does is give them a wicked little grin.

(The truth of the matter is that Pietro is territorial—and  more than a little… handsy. Whenever he speeds past his twin, no matter what she’s doing or who she might be with, he just can’t resist giving her a little squeeze to remind her that she’s  _his._ He knows that he moves too fast for whoever she is with to see, so he lets his hands wander. Sometimes he grabs her ass or gropes her breast as he zooms by, but more often than not, his fingers brush against the hummingbird tattoo that’s in a  _very_ private place—leaving poor Wanda all hot and bothered at the worst possible time.)


	8. Chapter 8

**☿**

[head canon]

* * *

 

There’s a funny little symbol that Wanda’s always doodling.   She does it almost unconsciously, leaving it on notepads and old takeout menus, and even on the steam in the bathroom mirror from time to time.  The other Avengers have asked her what the scribble is supposed to be, but she never answers them—she just gives them a tiny little half smile and shrugs her shoulders.  

##  ☿ 

(Of course, Bruce and Tony recognize it for what it is—the Alchemical symbol for Mercury, also know as   _quicksilver_ —but so far, they’ve kept her secret.)


	9. Chapter 9

H U M M I N G B I R D

[head canon]

* * *

 

 

[Wanda’s](http://chovihanni.tumblr.com/) pet name for [Pietro](http://walkingitcff.tumblr.com/) is  _‘ moj kolibr.’_

As soon as she realized that the testing had enhanced his speed—and that he needed large quantities of sugar to ‘refuel’ after he used it, she began calling him  _‘my hummingbird’,_ since the small birds move like a blur and need a constant supply of sweet nectar.  She always keeps candy on hand in case he needs it—and the drawer of her nightstand is always kept well stocked so he has a steady supply when he… exerts himself.

(We won’t discuss the small tattoo of a blue and silver hummingbird that she got on their last birthday—or the fact it is in a spot where only her  _kolibr_ will ever see it.)


	10. Letters to Wanda—1

>   
>  _sry tragic mess fucked u up bt what ur doing is gross shit. it disgusting an unnatural to get w ur bro. u need 2 back off an let him have a normal relationship yo. w a girl thts not his sister._  
>  _—ANONYMOUS_  
> 

Dear person who hides their face from me:

I must ask you, why did you feel compelled to send me such a message as this? (May I add, it was very hard for me to decipher as well, but that is beside the point.) The relationship Pietro and I share has no effect whatsoever on your life. We are hurting no one, and neither of us has forced the other into it—we simply fell in love. Do you think, perhaps, that if I turned him away he would turn to you for solace? Do you fantasize about making him forget me—dream about calling him your own? I am sorry, but I must be honest—in a million years those things would not happen. Pietro would do the same thing that I would—spend the rest of his life in misery, longing for the other half of his soul.

I do not understand why so many assume that the only reason I love Pietro and that he loves me is because of the catastrophic events that we experienced. Did losing our parents in such a manner affect us? Of course—we were two small children who had to learn to survive on our own at a time in our life when the hardest thing we faced should have been learning multiplication or the facts and figures in a schoolbook. What I do not think you grasp is this—we also learned the importance of cherishing what we had. At ten years old, Pietro and I literally stared death in the face for two entire days and we lived to tell the tale. We walked away from that encounter having lost everything, but we were thankful, even so—because we still had  _each other_   and  _our lives._

Many people seem determined to believe that our love is nothing more than a mistake we entered into because we had no one else to cling to or because of confusion brought about by the trauma of having our parents die in front of us; I say this—they are wrong. By the time we began falling in love with each other, _three years_   had passed—the shock of our loss had long since lost its newness. Was I confused when I first felt the stirrings of romantic love for my brother? Yes—but I was no more confused than any girl at that age would be. I did not understand why my heart started racing when his hand brushed against mine, or why my body stirred whenever he was near. Did you understand those things when you were thirteen—or, like me, did they leave you wondering why it was that suddenly when a boy touched you in a completely innocent way… it filled you with a yearning so strong it took your breath away?

You judge us, dear stranger, but you do not  _know_  us. You do not know what we experienced, or that for three years we fought to ignore what we were feeling. We tried to avoid giving in to what we both so desperately longed for because society has deemed it taboo. Yes, during those three years we slipped up; there were times when the longing we felt was far too great to brush aside. There were kisses and heated embraces as we explored each other’s bodies, but we fought against going too far. We both knew that once we did… that once we gave in to the ever present hunger… there would be no way to pretend that what we felt was platonic—so we continued to torture ourselves until we turned sixteen.  

You say that what we feel is unnatural and gross—but I am sorry, I must politely disagree.  The urge to mate is a biological need that all creatures on the planet feel, but animals—unlike humans—do not waste time on petty, irrelevant things. In nature, animals  do not care if their mate is a sibling—inbreeding is commonplace in the natural world, and contrary to what most seem to believe, some biologists argue that it can be a very good thing (if there are no recessive deleterious genes!). Among animal populations, inbreeding frequently leads to the development of genetic traits that confer special adaptations to a local environment—like resistance to disease. Perhaps it would ease your mind if I assured you that should we ever feel the need to procreate, we will have our genes tested—or does the thought of us having a child of our own just increase your disgust and loathing for the love we share?

Let me go a step further in discussing what is a ‘natural’ occurrence in human being—a very interesting phenomenon called ‘assortative mating ‘. Most youngsters imprint and lose sexual interest in their siblings, but at the same time they gain a search image for an  _ideal_ mate—someone who is  _not_  their sibling, but is  _like_ their sibling physically. Studies show that people overwhelmingly chose spouses similar to their siblings—is a fairly normal instance. So again, I must ask how we are unnatural—we are doing exactly what nature intended for us, though I will admit it is in a way that society frowns upon.

I do not see what is ‘unnatural’ or ‘gross’ about falling in love with a man who is kind and courteous—one who is faithful, and understanding, and goes out of his way to put my needs above his own. A man who is gracious and decent—brave and always generous. What is unnatural about falling in love with the person who owns the other half of your soul? Things like race and religion, sex or what family someone comes from should not have any bearing when it comes to love and soul mates—and honestly… it saddens me that you are so close-minded that you cannot see that there is nothing unnatural or sinful or disgusting about it. 

In closing, I say this to you: I feel no bitterness over the content of your message—in fact, I just feel pity. Love is the message that so many spiritual teachers have tried so hard to teach—it is a lesson that you, dear stranger, have obviously yet to learn. I pray that someday you will find a love as pure and beautiful as the one I share with my Beloved.

It is the kind of love that everyone deserves to have—no matter who they might be.

Regards,

WM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might do a separate collection for these since they're slowly filling up my inbox and I tend to respond in strange hybrid drabbles, but for now, I'll stick them in here. ;o)


	11. Chapter 11

Head Canon:

List's Secret Experiment

* * *

 

When the twins survived the experimental exposure to the Scepter and their new abilities began to manifest, something happened that took List and his colleagues completely by surprise; the H.Y.D.R.A team was overly confident in how meticulously they’d prepared the holding cells—they’d gone above and beyond to make sure their new ‘guests’ could not escape.

(They were very, very wrong.)

In a fit of rage at being kept segregated from her brother, Wanda Maximoff unconsciously unleashed her power on the door of her cell—blasting the locking mechanism to smithereens. The door to the holding cell next to hers immediately met the same fate while List and his coworkers watched in stunned amazement through the two-way mirror on the back wall of the cells.

( _Wait for it_ —that’s not the shocking part…)

The observers were more than a little restless—a nervous murmur ran through the crowd; no one had anticipated the girl would master her abilities quite so fast. Dr. List silenced them with an angry hiss—his eyes locked on the girl as she slowly entered the room. From the very beginning, he’d been thrilled at having access to twins; he shared the same beliefs that had fueled Mengele’s experiments—hoping to succeed where his predecessor had failed by proving a supernatural bond existed between the siblings. His eyes were locked on Wanda, hoping he would  _finally_ see some sign that all the others had missed—though in truth, he anticipated nothing more would happen than the twins comparing what they were feeling, or perhaps sharing a tearful embrace.

(There was an embrace… but it wasn’t tearful in the slightest—and not a single word was spoken by either of them.)

Wanda  _attacked_   her brother, hands frantically ripping at his clothes as his mouth crushed down on hers; Pietro scooped her up, shooting across the room to collapse on the narrow metal framed bed. Within seconds the sound of their mingled moans of pleasure echoed across the speaker, while List and his cronies stared in  _shock_   at the writhing bodies on the bed.

(They certainly didn’t see  _that_  coming—)

Long before the disgust List felt at seeing such vile behavior wore off, his scientific mind kicked into overdrive, formulating a plan. Having two with miraculous abilities was good—but having a mated pair that could spawn more subjects for him to study?

Even better.

They were young and healthy—given enough time, nature would take its course—all he had to do was convince Wolfgang von Strucker that the twins weren’t ready for the field.

(Too bad for him that things didn’t  _quite_   work out the way he’d planned…isn’t it?)


	12. Chapter 12

**E P I P H A N Y**

**_[prequel to[C H O I C E S](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4050628/chapters/9143644) drabble]_ **

> Nonsexual acts of Intimacy - Select from the following for my muse to  
> respond to… ♥: Your muse crying about something 
> 
> Requested by: [walkingitcff](walkingitcff.tumblr.com) (tumblr)
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> When I got the call summoning me to the conference room, my initial impulse was concern; in all the time we’d been with the team, I’d never been singled out for a meeting all on my own. I dressed quickly, sprinting thru the small wooded copse that separated our little cabin from the compound—trying to hide my unease as I slowed my pace to a brisk walk as I entered the building and began winding through the corridors. The last thing I wanted was to draw undue attention to myself.
> 
> As soon as I entered the room, my anxiety  increased—there was only one person waiting to see me; Stark sat at the head of the massive table, drumming his fingers as he leafed through the folder that was spread out in front of him. The grim look on his face as he looked up and his eyes locked with mine made my heart lodge in my throat—there could be only one thing he wanted with _me._
> 
> “Wanda… have a seat.”
> 
> “Thank you, but I think perhaps I prefer to stand.”
> 
> “You _need_ to sit down.”
> 
> The gentle way he said it confirmed what I was fearing; my eyes darted to the papers he’d been reading as I perched myself on the edge of  the closest chair. “Those… those are the results, yes?”
> 
> “They are.” He leaned back, his face solemn. “You’re aware, of course, that recessive genes heighten the chances—”
> 
> “Yes.” I cut him off, my hands fisted so tightly that my fingernails bit into my palms; I didn’t want to hear the odds again—we knew the likelihood was extremely high that they would not be in our favor. We’d done our research—sadly enough, we did not know nearly enough about our parents or their ancestry to ascertain what genetic anomalies might hide in the branches of our family tree.
> 
> “How…” I had to stop and clear my throat when my voice broke on the first word. “How bad is it?”
> 
> “It’s… surprising. They ran a full battery of test, screening for all known—“
> 
> “I know all this,” it came out a whisper. “Please—every second you delay makes me more terrified of what they might have found.”
> 
> “Fine… but there’s one thing you have to keep in mind, Wanda—there are no known tests for determining how your exposure to the Scepter’s Stone and the… _abilities_ …  you gained as a result will affect the baby.”
> 
> I jerked my head up, the surge of hope his words evoked making my chest tighten painfully. “Then… it is safe for us to try?”
> 
> “There’s no need to try, little witch—you’re already pregnant.”
> 
> For a moment, I was too stunned to speak; what he said was impossible—we’d been so careful, not wanting to risk the slightest chance until the tests were done. “I… what did you just say?”
> 
> “You… mother.  Pietro father.” His lips twitched up in a smile as he closed the folder, pushing it towards me.
> 
> “That’s impossible! How—”
> 
> “If you haven’t figured out the fundamentals,  I can always call Pepper and tell her she’s needed for ‘girl talk’.” He chuckled as I shook my head. “There’s nothing to worry about, Wanda—the test results are excellent. There are no signs of any anomalies, which is what’s so surprising. Banner thinks your exposure to the Stone might have somehow mended any flaws in your genetics.”
> 
> “I thought he was a biochemist,” I murmured, leafing through the stack of forms.
> 
> “Biochemistry and molecular biology go hand in hand. He knows enough to spot the oddity in your having no recessive genes at all.”
> 
> His brow wrinkled as he thought about it, but I was far too happy to be concerned; the only thing marring the moment was the fact that Pietro was not there to receive the good news _with_   me. “Why didn’t you have Pietro meet me here? He’s been just as anxious as I have.”
> 
> “In light of the surprising results of your blood work I thought you should know first—in case you’d changed your mind.”
> 
> “Speak plainly—you mean in case I wanted to terminate the pregnancy.” I felt a surge of anger that he would assume such a thing. “I could never do that—”
> 
> “Even if the rest had shown your genes were irreparably flawed—too damaged to produce a healthy child with him?” His voice was soft; there was no judgment in his tone, only unbridled surprise.
> 
> “I still would have had it—we would have loved it just as much. Pietro and I…. we’ve shared the same two dreams since we were sixteen. Having a family again…. having a baby together… it is something we’ve wanted for a very long time.”
> 
> He nodded slowly, though it was obvious he didn’t fully understand. “I see… well next time I’ll make sure to call him too.”
> 
> “I think we can both overlook the oversight in light of all you’ve done. Thank you—for everything.”
> 
> “You two did all the work.” He smirked at the blush that heated my cheeks, nodding his head towards the door. “Run along… tell Papa Pietro the news—I’m notoriously bad at keeping secrets, so you better hurry or the others will know before he does.”
> 
> Clutching the folder to my chest, I moved towards the door; he called out my name just as I reached it—I paused with my hand on the knob, glancing back at him. “Yes?”
> 
> “You said two dreams… what’s the other one?”
> 
> A little of my happiness ebbed away, the smile fading from my face as I shook my head. “It does not matter—it is one that can never come true.”
> 
> “Humor me—” his voice trailed off abruptly—his jaw tensing; I watched as the veneer of confidence he always wore frayed a bit around the edges, a haunted look filling his dark eyes. “It’s about your parents… isn’t it?”
> 
> “No—the first time we spoke of it… six years had passed. We still missed them, but we’d come to terms with out loss.” I felt my cheeks flush again, but I gave him the answer he sought. “We took vows… the two of us. Pledging ourselves to each other… but even so… we’d still like to get married.”
> 
> “So why haven’t you?” He looked confused—perhaps not realizing that while he could easily do such a thing, we _could not._
> 
> “While consanguineous relationships are legal in many places… consanguineous marriages are not. Even in the countries where relationships like ours are allowed…. it is illegal for siblings to marry.” To my horror, I felt tears prickle my eyes; while I did not care what people thought,  it still _hurt_   to have the pure, beautiful  love Pietro and I shared disavowed in such a manner—as if it was a sordid, shamefully dirty thing .
> 
> “Ahhh. _Now_   it all starts to make sense.”
> 
> “It most certainly does not! To be discriminated against because of the family we were born into—”
> 
> “Calm down—that’s not what I meant. I was talking about something else entirely—Something Clint mentioned.”
> 
> “And that would be?”
> 
> “Nothing you should worry about. Let’s just say he  suggested something and when I asked him why he’d come to me… he said I had a track record for ignoring international laws.” He stood, his lips curving up in a smug little smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few calls I need to make—and you have some good news to deliver.”
> 
> I narrowed my eyes, wondering what it was that I was missing; his words were a riddle, but one I did not have adequate time to ponder. I nodded, leaving him alone to handle his business; in all honesty, I was still in a state of disbelief—everything felt hazy and surreal, like I was walking in a dream. I automatically headed for the gymnasium—but before I’d taken a dozen steps, Pietro skid to a stop beside me, appearing out of thin air.
> 
> “What’s wrong?” His face was full of concern as he gently stroked my cheek.
> 
> I glanced up at him, surprised—I’d thought I had gotten better at shielding him from the brunt of my emotions, but obviously, I was wrong. “How did you know—”
> 
> “You pulled out of my head—you never do that.” He frowned, his brow wrinkling as he peered down at me. “Wanda… you’re pale—what’s going on?”
> 
> I dropped my eyes as  a wave of apprehension rushed through me; I wasn’t quite sure how to break the news—for the first time since I’d received it, I was unsure how he would react. It was something that we’d both wanted, but it certainly hadn’t worked out according to the time frame we had planned. “I… want to go outside, please. Then we can talk.”
> 
> He scooped me up without a word; I closed my eyes as  our surroundings blurred—not reopening them until my feet were firmly on the ground. We were on our porch, far away from anyone who might eavesdrop on the discussion. Pietro began pacing anxiously—his body bristling with pent up energy, like a tiger trapped in a too small cage at the zoo.
> 
> “You’re scaring me, what’s going on?”
> 
> I took a deep breath, holding up the folder that was still clenched tightly in my hand. “The test results are back—”
> 
> Immediately he pulled me into his arms, holding me close to his chest. “It doesn’t matter—we’ll figure something out. We can adopt a child or—”
> 
> “No… they’re good. Our genes are okay. Actually… they’re perfect.”
> 
> His face lit up, but only for a moment; confusion filled his eyes as he gazed down at my face. “Then… why are you upset?”
> 
> “I am not upset… I am in shock. Pietro… we are going to have a baby!”
> 
> He laughed, his head ducking down to press a soft kiss on the tip of my nose. “Wasn’t that the point of taking the tests? To make sure it was safe for us to start trying?”
> 
> “You don’t understand!” I pulled back, wrapping my arms around myself as I shook my head. “We’re going to have a baby _now._ ”
> 
> “Now? Now now? You…. We…” His knees buckled—he sank down onto the wooden slats beneath us with a blank look on his face.
> 
> “Pietro? Say something, my love… please!” I could have easily slipped back into his mind, but a part of me was afraid of what I might see; I could feel his shock radiating across the bond we shared, so strong it made it hard for me to breathe.  “I know we planned to wait six months… but really… we don’t need that much time to get everything the baby will need. Perhaps this is fates way of telling us it is time, yes?”
> 
> For the first time in years, my Pietro… he hid his face from me; he shifted, drawing his legs up to his chest—his head dropping down to his knees. I stared at him a moment, fighting against the tears I felt welling up inside—wondering if he had changed his mind and had not known how to tell me.
> 
> “I… I am sorry, Beloved,” I said, my voice breaking as I spoke.  “I swear to you I did not know—I would have told you if I even suspected. It showed up on the blood tests… it took me by surprise too.”
> 
> He did not answer, so I turned to walk inside—wanting to give him some time on his own to come to grips with the news; his hand shot out, locking around my wrist, but still, his face remained hidden.
> 
> “We are going to have a family again, Wanda… after such a long, long time. Our dreams... they are coming true, yes?” His voice was thick—when he looked up a moment later, I understood why. My Beloved had turned away to hide his tears—perhaps afraid I would think him less a man for shedding them.
> 
> “This means… you are happy?” I asked softly, reaching out to brush my fingertips against his cheek, tracing the trail left by his tears.
> 
> “Of course I am happy!” He scowled at me, jumping up—arms crushing me in a bear hug that was so tight it stole my breath away.
> 
> “Careful! Remember, it is not only me you are manhandling now!” I pulled back, smiling up at him—for the first time allowing my hand to move to my stomach, pressing against the miracle I carried within me.
> 
> He kneeled down, pressing his cheek against my abdomen, whispering soft Sokovian words to our child. “Hello little one… your Papa cannot wait to meet you.”
> 
> I smiled, threading my fingers through his hair as his lips pressed against my stomach. “Soon we will be three, my Beloved. We will—” I shrieked in surprise as he scooped me up—immediately burying my face against his neck as he kicked into warp speed.
> 
> “I am going to be a father!” His voice was filled with pride as he skidded to a stop, shouting out the news; I opened my eyes just in time to see the looks of startled astonishment on the faces of our friends—all except for Stark, who was exchanging a secretive look with the man who had accepted us as his kin.
> 
>  I ducked my head, hiding away my embarrassment as he gently set me down; practically everyone started talking at once, reacting to our news. There was no condemnation from them—just hearty congratulations that made my heart take flight. Immediately we were surrounded—Pietro staggering on his feet as the Norse god slapped him on the back; As for me? I found myself engulfed in the familiar comfort of our foster father’s arms.
> 
> “I’m too young to be called gramps, kiddo.”
> 
> “That is too bad because it is definitely going to happen—” I shot him a teasing smile, “—unless perhaps you would prefer we give that honor to someone else?”
> 
> “Not on your life—I’ve earned it, putting up with your brother’s smart mouth.” He said it with a straight face—but his eyes twinkled with amusement. “Laura’s going to be over the moon when I tell her—she’ll probably demand I start digging out all the baby stuff she stored in the attic.  Unless you don’t want hand me downs—”
> 
> “Don’t be ridiculous—I would love to have whatever she wants to share.”  I watched as his eyes drifted over to Pietro,  unable to stop myself from grinning at the look of paternal pride that was firmly affixed on his face; I saw my opportunity and snatched it—hoping he was sufficiently distracted enough to have loosened up his guard. “Clint… Stark mentioned that you’d suggested something to him—something about him breaking laws. What was he talking about?”
> 
> “That’s for me to know and you to find out—and don’t go trying to fish it out of my head, either.”
> 
> “I don’t try—it just… happens.” Pietro let out a loud exclamation of delight, drawing my eyes his way; his face was flushed, his eyes locked on the man in front of him.
> 
> “Don’t do it Wanda.”
> 
> “Hmmm?” My focus was still on my brother, who was shifting from one foot to the other—practically vibrating with excitement; he was worked up over more than just the baby—that much I could discern, but his thoughts were moving far too fast for me to read. It was like trying to grab a wisp of smoke that kept dissipating before I could catch hold of it.
> 
> “Don’t probe his mind—I mean it. Don’t spoil it for him.”
> 
> That caught my attention; I tore my eyes away from Pietro, my gaze locking with Clint’s. “Spoil… _what,_  exactly?”
> 
> “You’ll just have to trust me on this one. Despite what you women seem to think, men get sentimental about things too.” His gruff voice seemed completely at odds with the strange little half smile he wore; I was willing to bet that whatever he was thinking about was a happy memory involving his wife and children. “Besides—looks like you’ve got much bigger problems to worry about right now.”
> 
> Before I could ask him what he meant, he pointed, then turned away, heading across the room towards my brother and Stark. I watched him for a minute before glancing around the room, instantly puzzled by the sound of raised voices; while we’d been talking, an argument had broken out—one that only I could sort out.
> 
> “Do you even know what a godfather is?” Steve’s voice was louder than I could ever remember hearing it.
> 
> “The name says it all— _god_ father. I am the only one here suitable for such a task.” I bit my lip, trying not to smile at the haughty arrogance in the god’s tone.
> 
> “That has absolutely _nothing_   to do with it. A godfather is the person responsible—”
> 
> “Gentlemen—” I said loudly, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous it was for them to be bickering about such a thing, “I can settle this right now—Pietro and I have _already_ made up our minds, we talked it over as soon as we decided to proceed with the tests.”
> 
> A muscular arm slid around my shoulder—its giant blonde owner puffing up with pride. “You see? They know the choice is obvious—”
> 
> “He is right—it was very obvious what we should do. You will _all_   be godfathers.”
> 
> My announcement was met with silence—every single one of them looking confused by what I’d said; Steve’s brow wrinkled—an expression of worry flicking across his handsome face. I arched a single brow, giving him a pointed look. “You do not like this idea?”
> 
> “It’s not that… a godfather is supposed to _teach_   a child about—”
> 
> “I know—this is why we decided on _all_   of you. Each of you has very wonderful qualities to share. Teaching our child about morals and decency will be your job, Steve. Bruce will make sure they understand the importance of not just intelligence, but kindness too. Clint is a perfect example of open acceptance and the importance of family—”
> 
> “And me? Which of my magnificent skills do you have need of, little witch?”
> 
> I tilted my head back, smiling up at Thor. “Honor, and bravery. Acknowledgment of self-worth too.”
> 
> “I’m afraid to ask what you think I have to offer—or am I not one of the lucky few?” I turned at the sound of Stark’s voice; he’d moved closer to lounge against the wall nearby. His tone was sarcastic, but the look in his eyes betrayed him—he _wanted_   to be included, but thought I would leave him out, perhaps because of our old grudge.
> 
> “Who better to instill the significance of learning and owning up to past mistakes,” I asked softly. “To teach a child the importance of how to forgive yourself for those errors, and to leave them in the past and learn how to move on—”
> 
> “But that’s not all a godfather does,” Steve argued, cutting me off. “If something happens to the parents, the godfather is supposed to raise the child.”
> 
> “We are aware of this—but surely you do not think we would entrust the rearing of our child to a bunch of bachelors?” My eyes darted over to the one person in the room who had remained silent since Pietro had announced our happy news; her face was an expressionless mask, not giving the slightest hint as to what might be going on inside her mind. “If something happens to Pietro and me, our child will be raised by its  _godmother—_ Natasha.”
> 
> Her head jerked up—eyes wide with surprise at my pronouncement; for a handful of heartbeats we stared at each other… and then she smiled. It was honestly the most beautiful smile I had ever seen her wear—her face lit up with happiness.
> 
> “Natasha will have the most important tasks of all,” I said, returning her smile with one of my own. “Whether it is a boy or a girl, she will show our baby that women are able to achieve the same things men do. She will teach our child that females are not lesser beings—they are a force to be reckoned with, and she will pass on the Slavic culture that we share.”
> 
> “My Wanda, she is very wise, yes?” Arms slid around me, hands resting on my stomach; already he was protecting the new life that was growing within me. I turned my head to smile at my Beloved, my heart swelling with love and pride. “Tell them the rest, light of my soul—they need to understand our reasoning.”
> 
> “They say it takes a village to raise a child… that is a luxury Pietro and I never had.” I said softly, tearing my eyes away from Pietro to glance around the room. “We had to raise ourselves—that will not be the case for our little one. We will be counting on _all_ of you to help us out along the way.”
> 
> As I gazed at the people around us, seeing how they shared our excitement, how their happiness was reflecting in their faces… I realized something that had escaped me for far, far too long. It was something that Clint had shown us right from the start, when he’d opened his home to two skittish street rats who honestly believed that no one in the world cared if they lived or died.  Family isn’t just about shared blood—there’s an altogether different kind as well.  One that is made up of people who care about you—who accept you no matter what, and are there to share not just your triumphs but the tragedies that life throws at you too.
> 
> We _had_ a family, of sorts—it had been right there in front of us all along, but we’d just been too blind to see it.  We had been so focused on what we’d lost that we had completely ignored the ties that bound us to our teammates. They weren’t Mama and Papa—no one could ever replace them—but they would be there for our child the way a family would, celebrating each milestone right along with us as it grew.
> 
> Pietro’s arms tightened around me as he sensed the sentimental things that were dancing through my mind. His thoughts caressed mine across our bond, his lips gently grazing my temple. _“They are not Maximoffs…but they will do.”_
> 
> I smiled, turning to bury my face in the curve of his neck—losing myself in the wonderfully familiar scent of his skin. _“There_ _will be another Maximoff  joining us soon enough.”_
> 
> _“The first of many—we will add at least a dozen new members to the team, yes?”_
> 
> I giggled softly, imagining a gaggle of mini Pietros speeding around the building—driving our teammates crazy with their energetic playing and mischievous pranks; he countered it by adding a half dozen little girls to the mix that were the spitting image of me.
> 
>  “ _Just you wait, sweet sister… you will see. This is just the beginning of all our dreams coming true.”_
> 
> In the interest of not wanting to spoil our moment of happiness, I did not bother to correct him; no matter what, I knew that there was one dream that would never come true—it couldn’t, not as long as the world was bigoted and close minded, and that was something that certainly would not change during our life time.
> 
> I was unaware of just how mistaken I was; Pietro was right—I was wrong. In time, all of our dreams _did_   come true—thanks to our extended family’s intercession.
> 
> But that… that is an entirely different story in and of itself—one I will save to share with you the next time we meet.
> 
> **_—W.M._ **


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

**LIKE A GLOVE**

Nonsexual acts of Intimacy - Select from the following for my muse to  
respond to… ♔ : Finding your muse wearing their clothes   
requested by: [walkingitcff](http://walkingitcff.tumblr.com/) (via skype)

 

* * *

I suppose I knew all along that eventually, the time would come when Pietro would be healed enough to start training and eventually reenter the field; the problem was that I never imagined that  _I_  would be _excluded_   from his first mission. We were a matched pair—everything about us in synergy, so naturally I assumed they would send us out together.

I was wrong.

Though my initial impulse was to scream and rant about his orders, with difficulty, I abstained; I did not want to embarrass him, and I could feel the burning need inside him to prove his worth to the team. I held my tongue admirably as I kissed him goodbye—mentally demanding he remember to be safe… pleading with him not to take risks and to return in one piece.

He’d been gone six days when the melancholy hit me—it was the longest we’d been separated since he’d emerged from the cradle; in truth, every second that ticked past was slowly killing me. I did not know where it was they had sent him—only that the mission required his great speed. I did not know if he was safe, or if he had been injured; I only knew that he lived—when I reached out, I could feel the buzzing static of his hyperactive mind.

The first few nights I clung to his pillow—taking what comfort I could in the lingering scent of his skin that had seeped into the fabric. Unfortunately, as time passed… it started to smell less like him and more like me, so I was forced to search for something else that might grant me peace of mind. I ended up rooting through the laundry hamper in our bathroom—pulling out the first thing I came to that smelled strongly of his scent; it was one of the shirts he wore to work out in, made of clingy material that would tightly fit against him—aerodynamically aiding his speed.

Dropping my robe to the floor, I slid the shirt on—huffing a little as I struggled to get it over my chest; Pietro’s shoulders were broader than mine—his upper body much more sculptured and muscular, but my breasts and hips were full, practically straining the material at the seams. A glance in the mirror confirmed my suspicions; it looked almost pornographic, clinging to mu curves like a second skin—barely covering my ass. It did not matter, of course—no one would be seeing me since  I planned on going straight to sleep. I retired to our bed, drifting off surrounded by the familiar, musky scent of my Beloved.

I’m not sure how much time passed while I slept—I am sure you know what I mean? Sometimes when you doze off, your mind likes to play tricks on you—you wake up, thinking an entire night has passed, expecting to see the morning sun brightening your window, but then you look at the clock and are startled to realize you’ve only had an hour of sleep. That’s how it was for me when I was jerked awake by a rapid pounding on the door; I sat up, still in that strange, misty state where reality and dreams meet, blinking as I tried to figure out what was going on.

The sound came again—not stopping, just a constant stream of knocks that seemed to never cease; it pulled me grumbling and cursing from the bedroom—I jerked open the door without thinking about anything other than silencing the accursed noise.

“I’m sorry—I misplaced my keys again. Did I wake…” Pietro’s voiced trailed off—his eyes widening as they swept over my form. His mouth dropped open—cheeks coloring with the faintest flush, but I did not ask him what was wrong. I threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around him and pressing myself as close to him as I could—clinging to him like he was a life raft and I was lost at sea.

“Wanda… is that… my shirt?”

“Hmmm? Oh… yes, it is. I wanted something that smelled like you… to help me sleep.” I mumbled, tilting my head back to gaze up at him with sleepy eyes.

“It is very… wow.” He pulled back, studying me for a moment—his eyes darkening with a familiar hunger that chased my drowsiness away; in an instant, I was wide awake, my body full of need.

“Do you like it?” I teased, slowly turning in a circle—my arousal making my nipples stiffen against the tight fabric as I moved. “I thought it might be a little too tight… it fits me like a glove.”

He groaned.

My back hit the mattress—he’d moved us far too fast for me to see.

I arched up against him as he ripped the shirt away, moaning as his mouth replaced the fabric that had cradled my breasts so tightly.

He slid inside me; my body clenched around him—welcoming him  _home_ in a way that expressed far more than mere words could ever convey.

He is here, with me, where he belongs—that is all that matters.

And from now on, no matter what mission they might have…  _beside me he will stay._


	14. Chapter 14

M A L I G N A N C E

Prompt: You disgust me daughter. You have ruined my son. -mother (anon)

* * *

My head jerked up at the sound of the voice—I knew it as well as my own; in truth, I thought I had forgotten the sound of it—my memories of her had slowly dimmed, eroded by the sands of time.

She stood at the end of our bed, her dark eyes locked on mine; I was taken aback by the expression of hatred on her face—it was cold, and hard, a look that I’d never experienced during the few short years she’d been in my life.

“I love him.”  It was a whisper—filled with pleading; an entreaty begging her to understand. “It has always been Pietro…  _only_ Pietro—to deny that love would be a travesty.”

_“Whore! Degenerate!”_ The bitter hissed words were like acid, meant to corrode my assurance that what we did was right.

They didn’t. They couldn’t. The one thing I knew without question was the purity of what I felt within me.

“There is no sin in love… not when it is shared and reciprocated, Mama. This world… it is so full of ugliness and hatred. People killing each other over the color of their skin… over what name they use for God and how they chose to pray. Is that right or decent?”

_“It is an abomination! You condemn him to hell!”_

“Life would be hell on earth if we did not embrace how we feel! These things you say to me… people once said the same things about mixed race couples, or couples that were the same sex—but now they are starting to realize that there is no difference in the love they feel and what those couples share.” My voice broke, despite my determination to be strong in my defense of our relationship. “In time… maybe they will see that what we have is the same thing too. Our souls chose who we love—and souls care nothing about this world’s rules, Mama. They do not care about race or religion or shared blood—they are so much greater than such tiny, insignificant things.”

The specter of our mother did not respond—it just stood there glaring at me with loathing in its eyes.

“We started out as one, Mama… one perfect, beautiful soul that became two different people as we grew inside you. Only with him am I  _whole_ … only  _together_  are we what we were meant to be. We complete each other. If the world cannot accept that… then they are the evil ones, not Pietro and me. And there is only one thing that is greater than the evil and hate and intolerance—one weapon that protects us all from the seeds those things sow.  _Love._ ”

The figure dimmed, growing fainter and more transparent as I spoke; it vanished completely as my hushed declaration drove back the malignant words that sought to harm me—they would never succeed, for the love Pietro and I shared was a Divine shield, protecting us from the world’s scorn.

I jerk violently, my heart racing at the sudden jolt from slumber into wakefulness. Automatically my eyes dart around the room, but there is no sign of the looming wraith that tormented my dream. Slowly I start to calm, focusing on what is real and not the illusion that plagued my sleep—I grasp onto the things that ground me; the sound of Pietro’s deep, even breathing. The beat of his heart against my back, and the solid comfort of his body curved around mine—embracing me and protecting me even in slumber. Rolling over, I entwine my legs with his, my eyes drinking in the beauty of his peaceful features; in his face I can see all that he is—all that he has ever been and will ever be.

I see the brother I played with as a child, and I remember the shared whispers and dreams as we lay entwined in our narrow bed, long before the shells hit.

I see the young boy who captured my heart as we stood teetering on the verge of puberty—torn between the innocence of youth and the growing passions within us, sharing our first real kiss on the cold, cruel streets of Novi Grad.

I see the young man who hovered over me in the darkness, his eyes full of wonder as he moved inside me the first time, when our souls demanded we succumb to our shared destiny and the enormous love we felt inside.

His face… it is the face of the first and only love I have or will ever know; he is my soul’s husband and my reason for existing in this life and beyond.

Brushing a soft kiss against the tip of his nose, I move my head onto his pillow, our foreheads pressing together as our breath commingles, filling both our lungs. The scent of his skin is the balm I need, soothing away the sting of the claw marks the world tries to leave on my heart.

As we lay enfolded together, our bodies entwined in the same way they were before we entered this cold, cruel plane, the peace of sleep reclaims me.

_He is my home._


	15. F R U S T R A T I O N

Requested by: [Pietro](walkingitcff.tumblr.com)

Prompt:  **Grope Me [**  my character will grope yours ]

* * *

 

Of late, I have not enjoyed being an Avenger nearly as much as I did when we first joined the team—in fact, there are moments when I do not like it _at all._ I think I would not so irritable if the team’s headquarters were located in a more liberal, open minded country—this one… it is very discriminatory with regard to certain laws. There are only three states where relationships like the one Pietro and I have are allowed—and even those three would not allow us to marry. The remaining forty consider our love a crime—they would lock us up for being intimate with each other, and in some cases, they even consider cohabiting to be illegal. Since I do not imagine the powers in charge of the Avengers will agree to relocate the base of operations to Rhode Island or New Jersey simply to please me, I must find a way to deal with the frustration within me that grows stronger every day.

Theoretically, I could fix the situation on my own; all it would take would be one tiny little twist—reality could be rewoven, erasing all the ridiculous taboos and bigotry towards consensual consanguinity. I’m not selfish—while remolding things, I would certainly make sure to erase all the other forms of intolerance too. Can you image what a wonderful place the world would be if no sectarianism existed? If everyone was given equality and rights, without regard to things like the color of their skin or who they happened to love? I can see it in my mind—a beautiful utopia, where everyone is accepted—and I weep, because it is  _right there_ , within reach of my hand. I could bestow this great gift to the world, making it a literal paradise… but I have been told it is   _forbidden._

They throw out phrases like ‘ _abuse of power’_ —telling me that I have ‘ _no right_ ’ to change the way others think. As if what I want to do is an  _evil_  thing—as if   _I_   am  _evil_  for wanting the world to be full of  _acceptance_  and  _love._

Do you see now why I am slowly becoming disenchanted? Why it is hard for me to smile and act pleasant when all this plays at my mind? In the blink of an eye, I could make the world  _understand_   the truth, and _accept_  the love Pietro and I share—but instead, we are stuck playing out a ridiculous charade, acting as if we are nothing more than siblings whenever we are in the public eye. If we could just make it plain that we are a couple, everything would be fine, but as it is, everyone thinks we are single—and  _that_  is the root of all my problems.

You see… pandering to the aforementioned public is greatly beginning to try my patience—especially in light of the way the a large portion of the female population tends to behave whenever a male Avenger is in sight. Until recently, I always believed that men were generally far more forward than members of the fairer sex; whether that view was shaped by the world around me or by my own experiences, I am not sure—the only thing I know for certain is that my beliefs were entirely  _wrong._ Women can be just as predatory as men—in fact, I dare say some are far worse in such practices, simply because men today consciously try to avoid behaving in a manner that might be construed as sexual harassment in any form. For the most part I have not had to worry about being touched by strange men in public—they seem completely content to just shake my hand. The same does not apply to the females that flock around my brother—they are very forward, brazenly making their intentions known with crass words and roaming hands.

Pietro tries to play it off as best he can; he is charming and witty even as he uses his great speed to keep them at a distance or to divert them before their behavior crosses the line between what is acceptable and what is not. Unfortunately, women can be sly, tricksy creatures, and every once in a while one manages to do something that slips past his guard.

(My tolerance for such things is not high—in fact, it is nonexistent. It—like my temper—has a very low threshold, far too often snapping before I can muster up any sort of control. That is why I am sitting in this stupid office, waiting for Fury to lecture me on my inappropriate behavior. Really—does he expect me to just  _stand_  there and  _watch_ such a thing? To allow some brazen hussy to  _manhandle_   what is mine without retribution?)

I knew the blonde—and I use that term loosely, since her roots were as dark as mine—was trouble as soon as I spotted her. She tottered towards us on six inch, Lucite platform heels that were certainly more fitting for use on some dim lit stage with a pole than for navigating the crowded city streets. I glared as she simpered and cooed at Pietro—while completely ignoring my existence, might I add—handing him a marker and demanding he autograph the overly perky, obviously silicone enhanced breasts that were hanging out of the low cut neckline of her skin tight dress.

He refused—she persisted, whining and pleading, claiming it would make her the ‘happiest girl in the whole entire world’. Glancing over at me, he raised his brows; I rolled my eyes, mentally telling him to just get it over with—the cheap perfume she’d drowned herself in was giving me a headache. He bit his lip, trying not to laugh. Our exchange happened in a split second, but she caught it, finally noticing that I was standing at his side.

Her eyes narrowed, the look of doe-eyed flirtation replaced for just an instant by one of irritation; I couldn’t resist slipping into her head—that was my first mistake.

_Roll your eyes at me, huh? Just you wait, when he’s mine the first thing I’m gonna make sure of is that you’re out of the picture. Freaky looking bitch—_

My lip curled up in a snarl, but she missed it—her eyes had fluttered closed as Pietro signed his name, an overly dramatic, orgasmic sounding moan escaping her. It was so loud that Natasha heard it from where she stood over three feet away—she turned around, her eyes wide as they flicked between the blonde and me.

Have I mentioned she’s by far the smartest member of the team? All it took was hearing that ridiculous sound for her to calculate the probability of things turning ugly extremely fast. She moved towards us just as I was distracted by the wave of alarm and anger welling up in Pietro—it slammed into me, immediately igniting a hot, rabid fury that was beyond my ability to control.

The blonde had ‘stumbled’ on her ridiculous stripper heels, her body falling against Pietro—a clumsy maneuver she’d dreamed up to give her the chance to grab his crotch.

I was in motion immediately, without being consciously aware of it—the sole thought on my mind being to make my claim known. I didn’t pull on my power at all, I simply resorted to physical force; I shoved her so hard that she went sprawling to the cement—immediately replacing her body and hand with my own. Without hesitation, I groped him right there in front of the entire crowd, my hand gently caressing him in a way I knew was certain to elicit a response. My face instinctively tilted up just as his came down—our lips meeting in a heated kiss for everyone to see.

We were still locked in a rather heated embrace when Natasha towed us to the van.

I’m not really worried about dealing with Fury—after all, this is just a job like any other. We have the choice to walk away and he knows it—just like I know there’s no way in hell he wants that to happen. He wants our skills—and he wants to make sure that no one else gets ahold of them. So I will sit here and listen to his blustering, then I will point out the obvious. What happened today could have been easily avoided—and in part, it is his fault it was not. If the fact we are committed to one another were to be made public, then women would think twice about their behavior when I am  _right there_  at Pietro’s side. I will argue that it is a travesty that Pietro and I have not been given diplomatic immunity with regards to our relationship; we are foreign nationals that risk our lives to help defend this country from the threat of war—as such, we deserve the same privileges that are afforded to the members of the United Nations.

It is a very simple solution to the problem, one that is comprised of  plain common sense—which is probably why Fury has not thought of it. It is really quite a shame that the people in charge are generally men who often don’t seem to possess a single drop, isn’t it?

(You will have to excuse me now—Fury just walked in. I suppose I must at least appear to pay attention to his ranting, no matter how ridiculous it seems. Remind me that if I ever  _do_   end up tweaking reality to change the status quo—I think a world where women hold most of the positions of power sounds rather lovely, don’t you?)


	16. H U N G E R

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w/c: 1,219 
> 
> A/N: I was playing around on PS the other day, flipping and swapping frames and suddenly I had a gif where the twins looked like they were about to jump each other and start ripping off each other’s clothes. Needless to say… it inspired me. ;o)

 

THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT CANNOT BE EXPLAINED, no matter how hard you might try; it does not matter what words you use, or what examples you might give, or how many times you repeat the same phrase—some concepts are simply far too obscure for some people to grasp.  I am discovering that when it comes to the other Avengers, the connection that Pietro and I share is one of those inexplicable things.

A large part of the training they are giving us revolves around one central theme: learning to control our abilities—and impulses—to better benefit the team. It is an understandable enough concept, except for one simple thing—our teammates are unable to comprehend that there are certain things we  _must_   do in order to maintain the control they are so desperately trying to teach. We have a lifetime of experience in what will and will not work for us—our experiments started all the way back when we were children.  Long before we reached puberty, we realized one very obvious thing—when we are apart, it is nearly impossible to focus; we are a unit in every sense of the word—two separate entities that require being together in order to properly perform. Just as a pen needs ink in order to write, Pietro and I  _need_   each other to function—it is as simple as that.

Becoming lovers heightened that need, but in fact, it was List’s experimentation that made it a million times stronger than ever before. The plain, uncomplicated truth is this—if we are in the same room, we  _have_  to touch. It grounds us—stabilizing the onslaught of emotions and thoughts that ebb and flow across our bond. Even more importantly, it anchors us, taking the edge off the hunger that is always there, lingering deep within. When I hold Pietro’s hand or he wraps his arms around me, it enables us  _focus_   in a way that nothing else can.

Unfortunately, Steve and Natasha appear to be under the mistaken assumption that our touching in such a manner   _distracts_   us at inopportune times. Though they have not confronted us outright or requested that we abstain from physical contact during training and in briefings, I have seen the ideas that flicker through their minds. They’ve reached the conclusion that the only way to assure we pay attention is to separate us whenever they can.

I can only assume they think we are slightly stupid, or perhaps a bit naïve, since their manipulations are not the slightest bit subtle—it is honestly rather insulting that they think we are so dim witted, but I’ve held my tongue, not wanting to offend either of them for the good of the team.

Their preferred method? Waylaying us as soon as we walk through the door. Steve—displaying his charismatic, all American charm—clasps Pietro on the shoulder, asking if he can speak with him  for a moment in private about an idea he’s had. As he steers him towards the front of the room,  Natasha sidles up beside me, threading her arm through mine—leading me to the  _opposite_   direction—all the while trying to engage me in the sort of ‘girl talk’ that bores me to no end.

I am sure they think they are being quite clever, but what they don’t realize is this: they are playing with fire—and eventually… someone will get burned. Inadvertently, they have created an even bigger problem—one that could easily be compared to an accidental spark landing on kindling doused with kerosene. Their careful orchestrations distract us far more than innocent touching, igniting us in ways that they cannot possibly comprehend. Separated by the span of a room, there is nothing to stabilize the natural bond between us; we’re left restless, and anxious—every fiber of our beings yearning for the familiar comfort of skin pressing against skin. We are distracted by the play of our thoughts and by the emotions that flare up without warning to slowly drag us under—drowning us in their depths.

As if I could concentrate on Steve’s rambling about logistics when Pietro was standing right there by his side distracting me to no end! He looked so handsome—tall and strong, his stance relaying the confidence he felt; the urge to brush my fingertips along his cheek, tracing the fine bones that lay hidden away beneath his skin overwhelmed me. I wanted to run my finger down the aristocratic slope of his nose, trailing it down to explore the rim of his full, pouting mouth.

He looked up, his eyes locking with mine—immediately I tried to throw up a wall around my mind, but it was far, far too late. His tongue darted out, swiping across the soft fullness of those delicious lips—I clenched my teeth as a sensory memory hit me, trying desperately not to moan as things low in my body tightened, and a rush of heat pooled between my thighs.

He tensed, his nose twitching—as if we were animals and he could smell my body’s uncontrollable response to the memory of his tongue lapping up the moisture I offered. Even from across the room I could see his body respond—his pupils expanded, their darkness so large that it almost chased away the blue of his irises as he shifted, his hands dropping down in an attempt to hide the rapidly swelling tell-tale bulge expanding at his groin. I could feel the ache inside him—it resonated within me too; unbidden images surged back and forth between us, making it hard for me to  _breathe_. I could almost   _feel_ his hands wandering, skimming along the curves of my body, too fast for anyone to see.

It was too much—I lost the battle; the hunger took over, eating away my ability to function or process even the simplest of thoughts. A whimper escaped me, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet stillness of the room—drawing the eyes of every single person that was attending the briefing.

Steve frowned, forehead wrinkling. “Wanda? Is there a problem?”

I avoided his questioning gaze, squeezing my eyes tightly closed. “I… dizzy. It’s hot in here.”

“Actually… you  _are_ a little flushed… maybe we should take a fifteen minute break—”

“YES!” Pietro practically shouted out, instantly in motion before the man at his side could respond.

Air swooshed past my face as we flew down the hallway—my brother tried half a dozen doors before finding one that would yield. My back hit the wall of the dusty, long forgotten storeroom—my legs automatically locking around his waist as our mouths met in a desperate kiss. Our bodies moved together frantically as we satiated the uncontrollable need that our teammates idiotic maneuvering had raised.

This time… we were lucky—we made it out of the room and found a relatively private place before it was too late. Whether or not that luck will hold out the next time Steve and Natasha try such foolishness… well, that remains to be seen.

I just hope and pray they never decide to try such a misguided action when we’re in the public eye—the phrase ‘public relations nightmare’ wouldn’t even begin to cover the maelstrom   _that_   would cause.


	17. T H E   C O L O R   O F   L O V E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w/c:1,486  
> tw: reference to molestation  
> a/n: The events referenced in the flashback Wanda has in this drabble are explained in Chapter 7 of my fic ‘Transcendence’. I suggest reading it first so you’ll understand what memories Wanda is struggling with.

 

If memory serves me correctly—and in matters of this nature… it _always_   does—it happened the first time on a warm summer afternoon the year we turned fifteen. Up until then we’d been very careful—never letting our hands do _too_ much wandering. Our intimacies up to that point had been relatively chaste—kissing and cuddling… and yes, a _bit_ of exploration—but we’d both agreed that no matter how desperate we were to take things further, we had to wait until we were older.

It was a Saturday, and it was it was raining—the kind of thunderstorm that darkens the midday sky as it cleanses the world, turning everything dim and gray; I remember the sound of the raindrops pattering against the window above our heads as our bodies entwined on the mattress, the gentle sound it made was sporadically drowned out when one of us let out a moan. One minute we were kissing, his hands sliding over the curves of my body as I pressed myself against him—then the next thing I knew he was bolting up the stairs and through the cellar door. God… I remember how frustrating that was—laying there, left dizzy from his kisses, wondering why he’d run off.

That particular Saturday… I found out the reason.

When my pulse finally slowed, and my breathing returned to normal, I decided the time for answers had come. Quietly, I climbed the stairs, careful to avoid the third one from the top—it always let out a loud squeak no matter how lightly I might tread; I crept through the cottage silently—listening intently for the slightest sound that might betray Pietro’s location. (I knew he was still there—both the front and back door remained tightly locked, and he’d grown far too big to squeeze out the small windows.) It was all just a matter of patience—like a game of hide and seek; eventually, if I waited in silence long enough, he’d make some sound that would betray him.

I didn’t have to wait long; within just a minute or two, the faint sound of a groan came from the upper level of the house—followed by my name. It sped my steps, guiding me towards the largest bedroom—the only one on the entire second story that was still completely intact. The door was pushed to, but not completely closed—cracked open just enough so that when I pressed my face against the wood, I could peek inside. What I saw left me breathless, speeding up my heartbeat to a deafening roar that pounded in my ears—so loud I was certain that it would give me away, alerting him to my presence.

My brother stood facing the window, angled away from me, but I could still see the profile of his body; his head was tipped back, eyes tightly closed—and his pants were around his knees. I watched in stunned silence as he moved his hand rhythmically, stroking himself slowly as he murmured my name again. His tongue darted out, swiping across his lips—I wondered if he was tasting the lingering remnants of the kisses we’d shared. Seeing him like that… it affected me greatly—tension coiled up inside me, traveling from the center of my stomach straight down to my groin; it made me _ache_ —the same way I always did when we were kissing and I felt his hardness swell against my thigh.

I shifted, slowly pushing open the door—just enough so that I could silently slip inside. My eyes were fastened on the movement of his hand—it hypnotized me, commanding all of my attention. His movements sped, then he stopped for a moment, his shoulders trembling; after a dozen heartbeats, his hand resumed its movement—slow and steady. The need to know what it would feel like to touch him, mimicking the movements he made consumed me. I wanted to replace his hand with mine, feeling his hardness press against my palm as I slid it along his skin.

I could not stop myself from moving; I was halfway across the room…almost within reach…when a clap of thunder sounded—so loud it made the glass rattle in the window frame. Even as it startled me, it awoke the worst of my memories—tearing my mind away from Pietro and hurling me back in time to another stormy day.

I froze in place.

Gray, industrial cement blocks slowly replaced the white, paint chipped walls around me; the bedroom I was standing in melted away, reshaping itself into the basement of the apartment building we’d once called home.

_“Gently, little mouse… you don’t want to scare the kitten…”_

Biting down on my lip to hold in the scream I felt welling up inside me, I backpedaled out of the room—my body shaking as I fought against the flashback that was trying to break free.

_“Careful! Not so tight—give the kitty a kiss to show you didn’t mean to hurt it…”_

I slid down the wall, curling up in a ball on the floor of the hallway as the voice of my attacker echoed through my head. Had what happened in the basement that day ruined me forever? Would I never be able to touch Pietro without awakening the memories of what had happened to me?

Hot tears spilled free, streaming down my cheeks; the realization that I was damaged beyond repair destroyed me. How could I expect Pietro to want me if I’d never be able to take _that_ part of our relationship further? The answer was a simple one— _I couldn’t_.

Acknowledging the truth—that I’d have to step aside and let him find someone who _could_ give him those things, who could do more than share kisses and innocent caresses—shattered something inside me, but I loved him far too much to tie him down or hold him back. I couldn’t have him give up  being with someone who could physically express their love for him.

My head dropped down, brow resting against my knees as I tried to lock the memories away, walling them back up in my mind. It was impossible—they were far too strong, the voice of my attacker continuing to taunt me, no matter how hard I tried. I was losing control—I knew I’d start screaming soon, alerting Pietro to my presence, so I sent up a silent prayer for God to give me the strength I needed to silence the tormenting voice inside me.

I stood up, legs trembling as I headed for the staircase—trying to make it to the basement before I completely broke down. I got as far as the first step when an image flashed behind my eyes—the sheer beauty of it chasing away the haunting whispers about kittens.

I paused, waiting for the accursed memories of my molestation in the basement to chase away the image… but the whispery voice did not return—the image of Pietro, standing in front of the bedroom window, illuminated by the murky sunlight remained firmly in place.

My prayer had been answered… albeit in a completely unexpected way. I turned around, retracing my steps to the bedroom—focusing on the image that had driven away the demon inside my mind. I would not let the actions of one evil person ruin me forever. The taint of what had happened was strong, affecting me greatly, but my love for Pietro was stronger—so strong that it eroded away any power those hated memories held. Pietro was my strength—for him… with him… I could conquer anything; that was, and still is the plain, simple truth.

I crossed the room, silently pressing myself up against his back as I slid an arm around his waist—my other hand closing around his length, replacing his own; he froze—his heat pounding so furiously I could feel it through his back. His voice trembled when he spoke.

“Wanda… _don’t.”_

“Shhh… let me show you how much I love you.” I murmured, pressing my lips against his back, my hand slowly beginning to slide along his hardness.

“We can’t—”

“I _can.”_ It was a whisper; his cock twitched against my palm, growing even harder as I stroked him. “Please Pietro… I _want_  to touch you like this… I want to make you feel good…”

He moaned as my fingers danced along his shaft; when he leaned back against me, I knew that I’d won.

As I stood there, touching him in such an intimate way, the sun conquered the storm, breaking through the clouds and chasing away the gloomy grayness; the world felt brighter, and cleaner, like everything was brand new. The blueness of the sky matched Pietro’s eyes perfectly—for me, that day, it was the color of hope.

It was the color of strength.

The color… of _love_.


	18. Melancholia

I often wonder if the other Avengers really grasp the full weight that my brother and I carry; when moments of despondency hit us, our teammates seem almost confused—as if depression is an alien concept that they just cannot understand.

How can we explain it to these people—the feeling of intense loss that sometimes eats away at our souls? How do we explain all the longing we feel for things that we cannot have—or find the words to express what it feels like to lose our home not just once, but _twice?_

All that we have left is our memories and a single, tattered photograph—we cannot visit our childhood home, or walk the streets where we once played. We cannot even put flowers on the memorial stone that held our parents’ names—it is no more.

Novi Grad is gone—all that remains of the city we once loved is a deep, charred crater in the ground. All our worldly possessions were destroyed _—_ the small mementos and tokens we’d collected over the years we had lived on the streets were lost forever the same way we’d lost all our childhood memories to Stark’s horrid, wretched shells.

How do we explain that when the melancholia hits, it is not a simple matter of shrugging off the bad feelings and going about our day; we cannot set aside the terror and the heartache that has been with us since we were ten. We cannot banish the nightmares or the fear that lingers upon waking—it leaves us clinging to each other like two castaways set adrift on a vast, endless sea.

All that we have left of our shared past is _each other_ , and because of Tony Stark… _we almost lost our future together too ._

So tell me how to explain _that_ to the Avengers—please… tell me how to even begin.

Because the truth of the matter is… I haven’t got the slightest clue.


	19. M A Y R A ' S  ☿  L E S S O N

It started out innocently enough—with a simple request from her brother; after a few weeks of eating the meals that Stark’s staff had prepared, Pietro shot his sister a pleading look, saying he missed the taste of  _her_   food. Always eager to satisfy his every whim, Wanda promised him that the next night she would make their dinner.

[Truth be told, she actually missed cooking—and she was more than a little tired of the boring, bland cuisine that Stark’s chef prepared.]

Of course, the kitchen staff was rather put out when she wandered into their domain without asking permission, making herself at home; indignantly protesting, the chef tried to bully her into leaving—hovering over her as she explored the cabinets and the massive walk in fridge.

[He realized the error of his ways when he pushed her too far—she spun around to confront him with a frightening red gleam burning in her eyes. After that, he gave her a wide berth, leaving her the hell alone.]

The meal turned out perfectly—she’d made enough to satisfy her brother’s hunger, with a portion left over for herself, however, the next night… things changed. She spent the afternoon making Chicken Paprikash—the way their mother had always prepared it, using her secret ingredient, heavy whipping cream. Just as she was dishing it up, a blonde head peeked around the doorway—nose twitching at the delicious aroma in the air. Without asking [because deities never do] Thor grabbed one of the plates, demolishing the food with a speed that almost rivaled Pietro’s—immediately demanding _more._

[Though she huffed over having to start another batch, secretly… she couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit pleased that a _god_   liked her cooking well enough to ask for a second helping.]

The following night, just to be on the safe side, she doubled her recipe; sure enough, Thor appeared again, this time with Sam in tow. The corners of her mouth twitched up in the faintest hint of a smile as they emptied their bowls of Jaxnija—helping themselves to several servings of the spicy stew. They even went so far as to use the crusty bread she’d made to swipe out their bowls, completely cleaning them of every single drop of broth.

Romanov showed up the next night—drawn by the loud, boisterous laughter of the group of men perched on stools around the long counter. With raised eyebrows, she watched the young woman bustling about the kitchen—irritated to see her waiting on the men as if it were her _job_. Immediately she pointed out that Wanda didn’t _have_   to cook—she was a member of the team, she shouldn’t be wasting her time on silly domestic chores.

The witch’s lips curved up as she watched her teammates eating—softly she responded, informing the older woman that cooking was something she _enjoyed._ Shooting Natasha a patient look, she explained that she was raised in the old way—in her culture, domesticity was not something to be sneered at or regarded as a meaningless task. Women were not just the backbone of a home, but the heart of it too; their job was the most important one imaginable—to nourish and nurture their family, helping them to flourish and grow.

[The Russian didn’t look convinced, but her scowl faded away as soon as she took her first bite of the Halušky Wanda had prepared.]

By the end of the week, the kitchen was jam packed—one by one, every member of the team had been drawn in—either by the scent of  what Wanda was preparing or by the praise the others were lavishing on her skills. They stopped going out for fast food and ordering pizzas—instead, they spent their afternoons watching the clock, waiting for dinnertime to roll around.

Of course, cooking for such a large group was quite a task—eventually, she had to have help. Pietro zoomed around the kitchen playing sous-chef for his sister—chopping things so fast that his hands blurred [and practically bursting with pride every single time someone praised her cooking]. Wanda, in the meantime, was patiently walking the kitchen staff through the dishes she was making—teaching them how to cook the recipes that her mother had shared with her so many years before _._

[And the little witch was _smiling_ , and _laughing—_ she even chatted with _Stark_ and handed him a plate when he wandered through the door.]

For the very first time, she didn’t think of the Avengers as a completely separate entity from her and her brother. The feeling that they were on the outside,  hovering at the fringes of the group was slowly fading away, replaced with a sense of _belonging_ that filled both twins with joy. They were part of the team, part of the strange, motley assortment that comprised a wonderful sort of family—and that was something they’d been missing for a very, very long time.

[Out of all the lessons their mother had passed down, the very first turned out to be the most important one of all; ‘ _If you prepare your food with love and laughter, Wanda—it will warm your family’s soul_.’]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to clear some of the half written requests off my desk so I can focus on entering the next chapter of Transcendence—it's hard to find things when the desk is covered with papers, lol. ;o)


	20. S E C R E T S

In the wake of Pietro Maximoff’s  assumed death and miraculous resurrection, the team could somewhat understand the blind panic that gripped his sister when she learned that the twins had been assigned to different rooms. Wanda had just been through a very traumatic event, so her meltdown could easily be ascribed to PTSD—something they’d all suffered through at one time or another. Explanations were made, and a solution was reached—after all, compromise was a mandatory requirement if they wanted to function as a well-integrated team. The twins would share Starks large suite—he would move to a smaller room.  The others still found it slightly _odd_  that two adult siblings would _want_ to share living quarters, but in the interest of keeping Wanda calm, everyone held their tongues, welcoming the two young Sokovians to the team.

[As luck would have it, Stark stumbled across their secret first, when he went to gather some belongings from his former suite; Entering without knocking, his eyes almost popped out of his head when he caught the twins _in flagrante delicto—_ for the first time in his life he was practically speechless. He drove straight back to the city and used a tall bottle of scotch to wipe the incident from his mind, not mentioning it to a single soul.]

Despite that minor setback, as the twins settled into their new life with the Avengers, they tried [ _really, they did_ ] to be discrete. The problem was… they didn’t quite seem to realize that growing up the way they did—on the fringes of society, never interacting with anyone else— left them with a slightly skewed concept of what constituted _normal_   interactions between siblings. Their memories of how brothers and sisters behaved was based on their time in school, which ended abruptly at age ten; they didn’t understand that boys and girls generally stopped cuddling and clinging with their siblings when puberty hit—or comprehend the fact that kind of behavior in adults translated to something _more._

[Barton was the next one to realize something was amiss when he walked in on the twins in the middle of a food fight in the kitchen; he froze in the doorway, watching silently as Wanda giggled and squirmed, trying to escape the can of whipped cream that her brother was coating her neck with. What stopped Clint from chalking it up to childish fun was the _moan_ that escaped the girl when Pietro began using his tongue to clean up the mess he’d made.]

It didn’t escape either Maximoff that sometimes their teammates looked at them strangely;  though it disturbed them immensely, the twins pretended not to notice anything awry. They continued to act as if they were just a _normal_ brother and sister,  whispering back and forth between each other as they moved through the compound hand in hand. The others never saw one without the other—they might as well have been born conjoined since they never left each other’s side.

[The light bulb went off for Sam and Natasha the day they supervised the twins sparring. In an effort to strengthen their physical combat skills, they demonstrated a few basic moves, then sat back to watch Wanda and Pietro fight. It seemed to be going extremely well until Pietro used his much larger body to pin his sister’s smaller form to the mat—from that moment on, they were in a world of their own, not hearing a single word their instructors said. By that time,  most of the team had begun picking up on the little ‘tells’ that occurred when the Maximoffs were having a discussion in their heads—after twenty minutes of watching them stare at each other with rapt fascination on their faces, Sam gave up and went to do laps, dragging Natasha along with him.]

 Both Wanda and Pietro were overflowing with questions about life in America, but they were hesitant to ask their teammates—afraid they might unknowingly say something that would betray the secret they kept.  In an attempt to learn all they could about the country they were in, they spent hours binge watching television, cuddled up in a large chair in the lounge. Wanda started carrying a small pad of paper in her pocket—jotting down notes about the things they saw and facts they needed to confirm. They often could be found with their heads pressed together as they shared a laptop, searching for the information they desperately needed to find.

[Bruce found Wanda’s notepad by accident one day—it had slipped out of her pocket, wedging itself between the cushioned seat and the arm of the chair. It was full of half formed sentences like _‘Rhode Island=consanguine friendly/no marriage but not illegal’_  and   _‘New York=_ _10y to 25y imprisonment!’_.  Eyes wide, he shoved the notepad back where he’d found it—just in a nick of time since Pietro zoomed into the room with Wanda in his arms. With identical expressions of worry on their faces, they began a frenzied search of the room as he slipped out the door.]

Frequently, they felt smothered by the confines of hiding the truth away; when the need to get away became overwhelming, Pietro would scoop his sister up, racing to the Barton farm.  The easy, relaxed atmosphere soothed their frazzled nerves, and it temporarily satisfied the yearning they felt for a home and family of their own. Pietro would spend hours playing tag or hide and seek with Cooper and Lila, while Wanda chatted with Laura, holding her brother’s namesake in her arms. Though she tried to hide the longing she felt for a child of her own, the heartbreaking expression on her face as she gazed down at Nathanial betrayed her far more than words ever could.

[The first thing Laura noticed was how domestic and maternal the young woman was—the second thing was the strange way she always used the word _‘we’_ when talking about the future: _‘When we have a son someday, I hope he is as sweet as Nathaniel.’ ‘We will have twins… I just know it—I feel it in my bones.’_ Laura mentioned it in passing to her husband one night—then almost fell out of the bed when Clint clued her in on the truth.]

Occasionally, there were slip ups—like the time Barton took Pietro on a test mission without Wanda. Upset, she retreated to the woods around the compound, hoping a long, solitary walk would ease away her worries—unaware that a hungry visitor was trying to track her down.

[The conversation that ensued immediately forged a fast friendship between the young woman and the god of Thunder—[but that, in and of itself, is an entirely different tale](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4050628/chapters/11496034).] 

The Avenger most confused by the twin’s strange behavior was perhaps the most intelligent one of them all. Despite its vast array of knowledge, the android known as the Vision could not properly process emotion—it could not differentiate or correlate the difference between the data it _knew_ and the behavior it _witnessed_ before its eyes. The Maximoff twins presented a riddle that could not be solved—the standard gender defined roles ascribed to a sister and a wife were at opposing ends of the spectrum, but Wanda’s actions somehow merged the two, blurring black and white into an indecipherable shade of gray. Vision questioned the other Avengers, wondering if the twin’s behavior was the standard sort of interaction one would see between siblings—only to be told  _no,_ with no further explanation given.

[Quite frankly, Wanda didn’t give a damn what anyone might think; she’d  _always_ seen to their domestic needs—that wasn’t about to change.]

By the time a few months passed, practically every single member of the team was aware of the   _unique_  aspects of the twin’s relationship, though no one dared mention it or bring it up—not until the Maximoffs didn’t show up for a spur of the moment team meeting. As everyone took their seats, Natasha frowned, glancing around the room.

“We’re missing Steve… and the twins—”

“Tweedledum and Tweedledee are probably in their suite… doing private _‘twin’_ things,” Stark muttered under his breath.

Sam heard him—immediately choking on his drink. “You know about that?” he sputtered, wiping off his chin.

“Depends on what you mean by _‘that’_.” Tony grimaced at the memory of what he’d seen.

“They’re… you know,” Bruce mumbled, cheeks turning red.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, frowning. “Does this mean we’re finally going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

Thor jumped to his feet, glancing around with a fearsome scowl. “Where? I see nothing!”

“Sit down—it’s a euphemism, big guy. Means we’ve all been ignoring the obvious, refusing to talk about it.” Clint rolled his eyes, propping his feet up on the table. “Show of hands—how many of us are aware that the twins are an item?”

Every single person raised their hand except the Vision—Tony made a mental note to fill in the blanks for him later.

“Steve obviously doesn’t know—if he did, he’d have an ulcer by now.” Natasha sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “So… I guess now we have to decide how we’re going to handle it.”

“We’re supposed to uphold the law—we can’t flagrantly turn a blind eye to the fact they’re breaking it,” Sam pointed out, frowning.

“ _Most_   of us have done things that aren’t exactly legal,” Stark said, reaching out and knocking Barton’s feet off the table. “We have to take the fact they’re European into consideration…it’s legal in several countries—”

“They are godlings—they must be declared citizens of Asgard,” Thor declared, smacking his palm on the table. “Such an action will render their relationship untouchable by mortal laws.”

Sam blinked. “You mind telling me exactly what the hell a godling is?”

“One who possesses the power of a deity… a vassal, if you will. Barton was such a being when my brother held him in thrall.”

“Can we _not_   go there?” Clint scowled at the reminder. “They’re just kids who made the mistake of getting mixed up with HYDRA—”

Thor huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. “You are in no position to judge, human. You are blind to things that _gods_   see—”

He stopped talking as the door opened—the twins strolled in smiling, fingers entwined. As one, everyone turned to look at them—Wanda’s eyes widened as their thoughts slammed into her mind, a startled gasp escaping her.

“They know. Pietro… _they know.”_

Pietro responded instantly to the panic in his twin’s voice—scooping her up, he cast a fierce glare at the team before spinning around to flee.

“Wait!” Thor commanded, rising to his feet. “You are safe—do not go.”

“Safe?” Wanda spat out, laughing bitterly. “I can see their thoughts… feel their emotions—”

“We’re not going to turn you in,” Natasha said softly, leaning back in her chair. “You’re a part of the team—we’ll figure something out.”

“They can keep it under wraps—” Clint said, only to be interrupted by Stark’s snort of amusement.

“Yes—God knows they’ve done a peachy job of hiding it so far,” he drawled out sarcastically.

Pietro bristled. “If you hadn’t walked in on us—”

“You walked in on them? Dammmmn—”

“It wasn’t intentional!” Tony glared at Sam, irritated at the undisguised mirth in the other man’s voice.

“As amusing as I find it to see Tony squirm, let’s keep our eyes on the ball, gentlemen.” Nat drummed her fingers on the table, shooting a stern look around the room. “No matter what our   _personal_   feelings might be about their relationship, I think we can all agree that  _no_ government has the right to dictate what goes on between two consenting adults. It’s a direct violation of their basic civil rights as humans.”

Sam nodded slowly. “I never thought about it like that—you’re right. Maybe… we could make it part of their training—teach them how to behave in public so everything stays on the down-low.”

“If all else fails and push comes to shove, we let Thor do his godling Asgardian thing,” Clint winked at the twins, grinning.

“All those in agreement?” Nat smiled as one by one, the team members nodded, raising their hands. “Then it’s settled—although I _refuse_   to be the one to tell Steve when he gets back from wherever the hell he disappeared to.”

“He went to see Death,” Wanda offered softly—more than a little stunned by what had just transpired.

“He _what_?” The Widow jumped to her feet, automatically taking the statement the wrong way.

“His friend… the one you call the Winter Soldier,” Pietro said, shifting his arms to gently set his sister on her feet.

“He worries about him—that the melancholy over his actions will consume him. He goes to see him often in hopes of lifting his spirits.” Wanda, chewed at the corner of her lip, her eyes flicking between her brother and the older woman. “Perhaps we should not tell him… if he does not know, then we can test out the things you teach us on him to see if we are learning them properly, yes?”

Natasha’s brow furrowed—distracted by the mention of Steve sneaking away to see Bucky. “That’s fine, but eventually we’ll have to let him in on—”

Already impatient with the talking, Pietro cut her off. “Does this all mean that we do not have to pretend we are not in love anymore? We can act on our true feelings here, among the team?”

“That’s exactly what it means, kid.” Some sixth sense made Clint avert his eyes—or maybe he was just finally starting to understand how the young speedster’s mind worked.

Letting out a whoop of joy, Pietro grabbed his sister, planting a scorching kiss on her lips in full view of the room. When he pulled back, leaving Wanda breathless and beaming, he glanced over at his coworkers, flashing them a brilliant smile. “You did not see that coming?”

 [Of course, they didn’t particularly _want_   to see it at all—but in the grand scheme of things, that was neither here nor there since Pietro wasn't really concerned with anything other than immediately kissing Wanda again.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by: mycrazyfangirl21 on tumblr:
> 
> Prompt: The Avengers realizing the twins' romantic relationship.
> 
> [This one will actually be continued—there will also be a drabble touching on each of the events mentioned, either in Wanda POV or third person.]


	21. S E C R E T S ☿ S T A R K

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanda's version of the events with Stark mentioned in Chapter 20: Secrets

AS SOON AS PIETRO emerged from Helen Cho’s cradle, we realized that we were faced with an unexpected quandary—and neither of us was entirely certain how we should proceed. The destruction of Novi Grad meant our modest home was gone—we had nothing to return to… no place to go, and nothing to call our own. Our time on the streets had taught us the skills we needed to find shelter and scavenge what we needed,  but the thought of doing so in a city we didn’t know filled us both with unease—and though we’d been issued an open invitation to stay and join the team, we knew the likelihood of the Avengers changing their mind once they learned the true nature of our love was almost a certainty. For all its progressive, forward thinking claims, America and its citizens are highly prejudicial and narrow minded when it comes to certain things; consanguineous relationships between siblings are forbidden in almost every single state—in fact, in several of them, even _cohabitation_ is illegal. Apparently, in the so called ‘land of the free’, no one is concerned with the fact that by outlawing consanguineous relationships, the United States is in direct violation of the international human rights convention.

It was already quite obvious to us how Stark felt about such pairings—it was hard to ignore his derisive comments once I deciphered their snide meaning; more troubling still was the fact that none of the other Avengers called him out on his discriminatory prejudicial beliefs—it clearly indicated that they shared the same sentiments, and would be disgusted by the truth. Our hands were tied—we were trapped between Scylla and Charybdis like the poor, helpless sailors in the days of old.  The only thing we could do—as distasteful as it seemed—was to hide our love in the shadows until we pilfered and saved up enough money to return to Europe where there were countries that were far less bigoted in their ideals.

Even so, the one thing neither of us was willing to do was change the way we interacted with each other; it was one thing to  hold our tongues and not speak openly about our union—another thing entirely to revert to a purely platonic relationship, denying ourselves the affectionate gestures that had been second nature to us for such a long, long time. If they glimpsed a hint of truth in innocent caresses then so be it—if they were rude enough to ask outright, we would neither confirm nor deny their allegations. After all, in a country where a person was _supposedly_   presumed innocent until proven guilty, they could not very well cast us out or report us to the authorities based on _conjecture_ and _assumption_.

For most people, a discussion of such magnitude would take  hours—if not days or weeks—of deliberation and discussion; that was not the case for us—it happened in the literal blink of an eye. Images and debates flew back and forth between our minds even as the team gathered around Pietro, welcoming him back from death’s door.

Their friendly overtures were ill timed; at that moment, all we wanted was to be _alone—_ the need to join together as one was a palpable, overwhelming thing. The hunger for the press of skin against skin, bodies uniting in a dance as old as time rode us both,  making it hard for us to function… hard to think… hard to _breathe._ In an attempt to extract us from their unwanted company, my brother feigned exhaustion—it was at that moment that the first obstacle we would have to clear appeared before us.

They assigned us…. _separate_ rooms.

My control snapped.

A tidal wave of energy swelled inside me, crashing against the barriers of my mind like breakers smashing against the shore. It was far too much for me to harness—as it exploded, pouring out of me, every ounce of my strength and focus was on keeping it _away_ _from the people around us_ as it decimated the room we stood in. In truth—as frightening as it is to contemplate—I think I might have leveled the building if Pietro had not been there to send soothing thoughts to caress my mind.

I regained my sense of self—of time… of place… of _reality—_ slowly, coaxed by the soft, gentle words Pietro murmured against my skin as his lips caressed my brow. The others had fanned out in a circle around us—their eyes hooded and narrowed as they observed me, perhaps realizing for the first time that I posed more of a threat than they knew; in that moment, they saw me for what I truly was—a liability. I was a loose cannon, in possession of powers and abilities far beyond my meager means to control.

“You triggered her,” Pietro growled, scowling at them as his arms tightened around me. “This is _your_ fault, not hers.”

“Like she triggered Bruce? I suppose _that_  was _our_ fault too?” Romanov cocked her head, her eyes affixed like laser beams to my face—as if she could wipe me out of existence with nothing more than the sheer intensity of her gaze. Beside her, Barton shifted—reaching out to brush his hand against her back; in his mind, I saw the hidden meaning of the gesture— _steady Nat… stay calm._

“The only time in our entire lives that we’ve not shared a room was during the experiments,” Pietro said softly, stroking my hair. “They separated us immediately… wouldn’t let us see each other… but we could _still_   feel each other’s pain. You have no idea what that is like… feeling your other half racked with torturous agony… being unable to comfort them.”

“Pietro—” My voice held a note of warning. _Too much… too close to the truth… my brother, be careful—watch what you say._

“Don’t even try it—you’ve got your mind mumbo jumbo,” Banner muttered. “We’ve all seen it—how the two of you communicate without saying a word.”

“That was not always the case,” I whispered. “Our whole lives we shared a bond… feelings… emotions… but never words. Not until after the enhancements fully took effect. When they first began to set in… Pietro’s emotions vanished from my head… there was nothing but static… I thought… I thought he was dying.”  I shuddered, burying my face in Pietro’s neck, trying to hide the tears that gathered in my eyes.

“They wouldn’t even tell us how the other was fairing. We were caged like animals…kept apart until—” Pietro’s voice trailed off—he shook his head. “We are twins… but more than that… we are _one—_ that is something you cannot  possibly understand. We will share a room here… or else we _will not_   stay.”

“I felt him _die_   saving you—our soul ripped in two.” My eyes flicked over to the man Pietro had saved—the only one I believed might someday understand.  “I will never leave his side again—it’s why I stayed beside the cradle, no matter how much you pestered me to move. Apart we are restless, unable to function. If you truly want us to work with your team… that is something you _must_  understand.”

Barton’s jaw tensed—as if he perhaps grasped and understood the subtle innuendo hidden beneath my words; it was as close as I could come to admitting the whole truth. Slowly, he nodded, but before he could speak, Stark’s sly voice rang out.

“Put them in my suite—it’s big enough for two. I’m not here enough for it to matter—when I stay over I’ll sleep in the lab.”

“Are you sure?” Steve’s brow furrowed. “It’s not really proper—”

“This isn’t the forties for Christ’s sake—just do it before they pass out.” Stark snapped.

My eyes moved over to our longtime nemesis’ face—my mind reaching out, searching for some sign it might be a trick; I found no sign of treachery, only a hint of remorse that surprised me—he felt _responsible_  for all we had suffered through. “We appreciate the gesture, Mr. Stark, but—”

“But nothing—maybe now the two of you will quit glaring at me all the time. It’s giving me a complex.” He turned away, hesitating just outside the door. “When you feel up to it… have someone take you into the city. Buy whatever you need—on me.”

The emotions rolling through him were completely at odds with his indifferent, flippant tone, but I did not question it—Pietro’s need to rest and finish healing superseded any curiosity I had in regards to unraveling the puzzling aspects of the rich American’s mind. For all his faults, Stark’s words carried weight the others; he’d solved our first problem for us with minimal fuss. No one asked any further questions—we were escorted to our new room, and left alone to settle in.

DESPITE THE MUTUAL NEED we felt, I was  well aware that Pietro was in no shape for sating our hunger; I could feel his fatigue as if it were my own—when coupled with the energy I’d expended during my fit of temper,  it left me drained and so exhausted I could barely move. It took all my strength to strip off the scrubs he was wearing and help him into the bed; I dropped my own clothing on the floor in a heap, climbing in beside him. For the present, we would have to be satisfied with holding each other as close as possible, allowing his body time to finish the mending that Cho’s cradle had begun.

For a little over a week, the only time I dressed or left the suite was to fetch food from the massive kitchen; no one was allowed to enter our new sanctum—we ignored their knocks until they got the message and went away. It was a time of adjustment and peaceful healing—one that we _both_   needed; our emotions were bruised, battered things—scraped raw and left oozing by the bullets that had riddled his flesh. For hours on end we lay entwined with my ear pressed against his chest—letting the strong, steady sound of his heartbeat reassure me that all was well. That sound… that blessed, wondrous sound… it made me forgive God for everything that I’d lost… for everything that I’d suffered in my life  My Pietro was _alive_   and the sound of his  heart beating was the greatest miracle I could ever receive.

By the seventh day, his playfulness had returned; his color was back to normal, and he no longer looked haggard and worn out. I was still hesitant—afraid that any form of physical exertion might set back his healing, but Pietro… well… he can be very, _very_   persuasive when he sets his mind on something he wants. His innocent kisses slowly deepened, comforting caresses growing into lingering, teasing touches meant to ignite a fire in my blood. It worked, of course, but as soon as my body welcomed him home and he began to move inside me, a sound of pain escaped him—a wave of intense agony searing my mind.  It was more than enough to clear away a bit of the passion that had overridden my better judgment.  My legs clamped around his hips like a vice, stilling his movement—holding him in place as I gently informed him that he had two options before him. He could lay back and let _me_   do all the work… or we would stop our loving and wait out another week of healing.

Naturally, he protested; I understood why—I could feel the emotions that warred within him and easily read the thoughts that skimmed through his mind. Falling in battle would be a blow to any man’s ego—as would failing to honor his promise to return and take the one he loved above all else to safety. He felt the need to reassert his manhood—proving he was strong and whole, able to protect me the way he always had. I could understand those things, but at the same time, my need to stop his pain overrode everything else.

Given my unique abilities and my insight to the inner workings of his mind, the course of action I chose to take could easily be seen as underhanded; all I can say in my defense is this: when push comes to shove and a man won’t listen to _reason_ , all a woman can do is rely on her natural… assets… to steer him down the right path. I sighed, arching my back up off the mattress; the movement pressed my breasts against his chest, distracting him as I rifled through his mind, subtly pulling the images I needed to the forefront of his memory—my body glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, breast swaying as I rode him, moaning out his name.

His arguments died on his lips; blue eyes turned dark with hunger. He shifted us, his hands moving to caress my breasts even as his back hit the mattress. I began to move slowly, teasing us both with each languorous rock of my hips—watching as he bit his lip in an attempt to hold in the impatient pleas that raced through his mind. My lips twitched up in a wicked smile as I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the mattress—tormenting him with the brush of  my nipples against his chest; his breath caught in his throat,  eyes fluttering closed. Only _then_   did I speed my movement, contracting my body tightly around his cock as I swiveled my hips in the circular motion that always drove him wild.

After our long fast, it is really no wonder that neither of us lasted very long.

When we were both spent, and my insides were aglow with the warmth of his precious seed, I collapsed against him, even as the orgasmic aftershocks raced through me, making my body clench body around his. That is how we drifted off—with our bodies still joined as the sweat cooled on our skin, the intensity of our shared pleasure leaving us in that dreamy, lethargic state that only sleep can cure.

In light of our precarious situation, we should have been more cautious; we should have been diligent, ascertaining exactly how much privacy we would be afforded by the other members of the team. Our week of solitude made us assume too much; we believed the locked doors of our suite insured it was a safe haven—the one place where we could completely let our guard down… where we could be free to be _ourselves._

It was a mistake—one of epic proportions. What transpired could have very easily brought our time with the Avengers to an abrupt, screeching halt.

A noise roused me from my deep sleep—or rather, to be more accurate, it was a startled exclamation. “What in the _hell!”_

 Even as the shocked voice jerked me awake, Pietro shifted, flipping up—using himself as a shield to hide my naked body from view; the sudden movement made him groan in pain, however, given the circumstances, Stark took it the wrong way—assuming it was a sound of pleasure and not one of agony.

“Jesus Fucking Chri—”

“Get your eyes off my wife or I will rip them out of your head!” Pietro’s voice was a growl of rage—I could feel every muscle in his body tensing against mine. He was on the edge—prepared to follow through on his threats, tearing the older man apart with his bare hands.

“Your _what?_ Are you _kidding_ me? _”_  I peered over Pietro’s shoulder—never imagining that the day would come when I would see Tony Stark gaping, speechless.

Had he averted his eyes, Pietro’s fury might have faded—but he didn’t. He just kept on staring, which only served to fuel the bottomless rage that had burned within my brother since we were ten years old.  A thought flickered across Pietro’s mind—one that was so deadly, I knew I had to act fast. I opened myself to his anger, allowing it to wake the coiled power within me, clenching my arms and legs around his body—caging him against me so he could not move. Despite the dire situation we were in, his cock twitched to life inside me—aroused by the tightening of my muscles as I clung to him. 

Though I groaned, I could not allow myself to be distracted—my mind reached out, ensnaring Stark’s, sharing the words that echoes through my brother’s head.

_“Gazing upon the naked body of another man’s wife is forbidden—a death sentence. That is the law.”_

_“Go—but know this,”_ I whispered through Stark’s mind, my words laced with threat. _“If you speak of what you have seen with anyone, I will not be able to stop him. It is a matter of honor. The law of the people is all we know—it is a creed embedded in the very fiber of our bones.”_

The rich man’s eyes widened, his face draining of color—whether it was from my words or the sight of the red haze of power that I’d wrapped around the bed to hold Pietro still, I do not know; slowly he nodded, backing out of the room. The door shut just as Pietro broke free of my entrapment—he growled, low in his throat, trying to disentangle himself without hurting me.

“Let me go—”

“No. He will not tell—I made sure of it.” I thrust my hips up—he groaned.

“You cannot be sure—”

“I can. I trapped his mind.” I turned my head, nuzzling his neck; slowly the  fire of his anger drained away,  replaced by an altogether different kind of heat. “We have spent half our lives fretting about Tony Stark—do you really want to waste this moment… to leave me here, aching with need while you chase after him?”

“He _saw_ you,” he muttered, his arms sliding around me, holding me tightly to his chest.

“He didn’t—you moved too fast. All he saw was your delicious backside.” My hands slid down, grasping his ass—earning a hiss of pleasure in return. “Why are we talking about _him_ , my Pietro? You are inside me, where you belong—now is the time for _loving,_  not stupid _words._ ”

His lips found mine as he thrust his hips—I moaned against his mouth, rocking up against him. Without my having to insist, he rolled us over in one smooth, graceful movement—the heat of our kiss and the movement of our bodies as I rode him working in tandem to burn all traces of Stark from his brain.

Later, I would fret and worry, wondering if the man would heed my warning. Later, I would put safeguards in place—finding a way to make sure no one would enter without invitation again. But first… first there was something far more important I had to do before I could even begin contemplating anything else.

Making love to my Pietro _always_ come first—no matter _what_.


	22. S E C R E T S  ☿ T H O R

If anyone noticed her slip away, they wisely held their tongue. Under normal circumstances, Wanda Maximoff’s temper was a formidable, fiery thing—in the wake of being left behind while her twin was sent out on a mission, the witch would be struggling with her emotions, in all likelihood completely unable to control her rage. Common consensus among her teammates was that the safest thing for _everyone_ was to leave her the hell alone until Pietro returned.

[Unfortunately, someone apparently missed out on _that_   particular memo. As soon as he spotted her slinking off, he gave chase.]

She fled from the building, seeking solace in the thick expanse of trees that surrounded the Avenger’s compound on all sides; it was a place where she could rant and cry, letting loose the worry and fear that ate away at her insides. If she squinted, perhaps she could calm herself by letting her imagination run free—pretending she was back in Sokovia… that the wildflowers growing in scattered intervals beneath the trees were the beautiful flowers she’d planted in the garden behind their small cottage. She could make believe that Pietro was out on an errand—not on a mission without her by his side; he would join her soon—they would curl up beneath one of the large trees, the same way they’d done a million times beneath giant old willow tree back home.

It might have worked… she _might_ convinced herself that the fantasy she’d woven was real—but a loud, booming voice broke the peaceful silence, shattering her illusion before it could take hold.

“Little witch! I am in need of nourishment!”

Her head jerked up at the thunderous sound; she was so surprised that she didn’t even think to hide the tears that streamed down her cheeks. “I am sorry… I don’t feel much like cooking today.”

The blonde god froze at the sight of the glistening wetness on her cheeks, eyes widening with alarm—unsure how to proceed. “You are upset… my hunger has offended you?”

“No… my brother has been sent on a mission—I wasn’t allowed to go with him,” she said, swiping at her cheeks.

“He will return soon enough—”

 “He is with Barton. After what happened the last time… I worry,” she murmured softly.

His brow wrinkled as he pondered the concept—racking his brain in search of a way to distract her from her fears. “Since there is no food here, you will come with me—to Asgard.  We will feast and drink until your sorrows cease. The men in my realm will cheer you with their favorable attentions.”

She scowled, glaring up at him. “I don’t want attention—I am taken. It is very improper for you to suggest such a thing.”

Thor’s confusion grew by leaps and bounds—her response was almost as perplexing as the wetness that glistened in her eyes. “What does this mean, taken? You are right here—”

“Not taken as in kidnapped… taken as in matched. Mated… married…. Don’t they have that where you come from?”

His brow smoothed out at the explanation, his lips twitching up in a smile. “Aye—we  have marvelous wedding feasts—they last nearly a fortnight. Such a pact is very serious… I was unaware you had a husband, little witch… I meant no disrespect.”

“No one knows… it is a secret.” She started walking again, absentmindedly fiddling with the earring in her ear.

He walked beside her, shortening his powerful strides in deference to her smaller stature; from time to time he glanced over at her as they moved through the woods, but he did not speak—hesitant to break the calm,  idyllic silence that surrounded them. He was unaware that for her, the walk was anything but peaceful—the unasked questions in his mind hammered into her thoughts.

She stopped walking again, rubbing her temples with a grimace. “You are a very  noisy thinker.”

He scoffed. “A ridiculous statement—thoughts are silent things.”

“Not to someone who can read people’s minds,” she growled. “Yours boom like a bass drum.”

“As is fitting for a god,” he retorted smugly. “Everything about us is larger than mere mortals can comprehend.”

“Well your _largeness_   is giving me a migraine.”

His smugness faded as he studied her—she did  look pale, as if she might keel over where she stood. “Sit, little witch, I will return in a moment—do not wander off whilst you feel ill.”

Though tempted to argue, she complied—sinking down to the ground and pressing her forehead to her knees; immediately her thoughts strayed back to her brother, her worry growing stronger with every minute that passed.

“Here—it will ease the aching.”

She glanced up as he placed a  scrap of fabric he’d torn from his cape against her forehead—it was blissfully cold, soaked in a nearby stream. “Thank you… you shouldn’t have bothered—”

“I am the cause of your pain—now, I make it cease.”

She closed her eyes, only to open them a moment later—tilting her head to peer up at him. “Please don’t lurk… sit down. Or are gods too good to lounge on the grass the way  _mortals_  do?”

He considered the request—was it fitting? By her own admission she was a married woman—it was one thing to offer an escort while she walked, quite another to tarry about in a secluded glade with a teammates’ woman.

Her lips twitched at his hesitancy. “If you sit… I will answer your questions truthfully…. but you must give me your word you will not tell anyone what I say. That is a fair trade, yes?”

“My word is my worth.” He said solemnly, dropping down beside her, shrugging his concerns about propriety aside for the space of an afternoon. “Where is your husband? Did he perish in the attack on your homeland?”

She sighed, fiddling with her earring again—sending up a silent prayer that he could be trusted with her secret. “He did… but he lives again.”

“Is this a riddle of some sort? You promised answers, little one, not cryptic ciphers.”

“It is no riddle—my husband died on a street in  Novi Grad, saving Clint Barton’s life.”

 He cocked his head, his look of puzzlement fading. “You speak of your twin.” 

“I do,” she murmured, not daring to look at him.

“I must confess… I do not understand why you keep this knowledge a secret.”

His matter of fact tone surprised her; she glanced over at him, arching a brow. “You are not shocked by my disclosure?”

“Should I be? Such relationships are tradition among the Vanir. Njörðr  produced twins with his sister-wife— Freyr and Freya, who then coupled as  well.”

Images of a beautiful, kind faced woman with long flowing hair and a sweet, melodic voice slammed into her mind; she watched the woman sing a soft lullaby,  tucking two small boys into bed—one as bright and golden as the sun, the other pale and dark, like night.

“She is very beautiful… is she one of those you spoke of?”

“She was,” he said softly, his voice tinged with sadness.

“But… the name in your head is… different… yes?”

“She changed her name long before I was born—after the war between her people and mine. When she came to Asgard, she became Frigga, leaving the name Freya and the ways of the Vanir behind. She was  forced her to set aside her brother-husband, and chose another, among her _new_ people.” His head dropped—an image of a flaming boat  sailing over a waterfall filled his mind. “She was my mother. Now she is gone.”

The enormity of his statement stole her voice, even as the depth of  his sadness tore at her heart; she reached out her hand towards his temple hesitantly, wanting to ease his pain. “May I share something with you?”

He nodded slowly—her fingertips closed the distance, brushing his temple, emitting a faint red glow; she merged their thoughts, weaving a picture of the night sky, lit by the brightness of a million stars.

 _“Pick one.”_  Her voice was a whisper, echoing through his mind.

“What?”

_“Pick a star—the one that draws your eyes… the one that calls out to your soul.”_

He did—she followed the path of his thoughts, merging his mother’s beautiful face with the star’s clear, bright light. _“My people believe that when our loved ones leave us, they become a star… always watching over us from above. She is not gone, she is still with you…. just in a different form than the one you knew.”_

“It is very similar to what my people believe,” he mumbled softly.

She tilted her head, fingers twitching—in the illusion, the star drew closer, the lovely face smiling down, radiating the perfect love of a mother for her son. _“When you are saddened, look to your mother’s star… she will always comfort you in your time of need.”_

They sat in silence, the day fading around them, darkening to dusk as he communed with his mother’s spirit.  She withdrew from his mind as the last of the light faded, leaving him in the peaceful comfort she had created within his mind—however, as she stood, prepared to continue her wanderings, his hand shot out, locking around her wrist, holding her in place. “You did not answer my question. Why do you keep your love secret?”

“They would throw us in jail… in this country, it is a crime,” she murmured softly, trying to pull free. “They would force me to choose another… the way your mother did.”

“Remember this, little witch—the laws of this realm are easily escaped. Destiny… is not.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Now you are the one speaking in riddles… I do not understand what—”

His head turned, eyes locking with hers—lips curving up in a jovial smile. “The old rules of the Aesir faded into the mists of time, thanks to my mother’s gentle Vanir hands. Should the two of you ever have need of sanctuary… my home awaits you.”

Before she could respond, the air between them blurred. The comforting buzz of static filled her mind,  even as anger danced along her skin—it was sharp and prickling, like the bite of a thousand tiny fleas. The god’s hand was ripped from her arm. “Get your filthy hand _off_  my sister!”

The blonde giant laughed, rising gracefully to his feet—not disturbed in the slightest by Pietro Maximoff’s anger. “Calm yourself—I meant no ill will. I merely offered your lovely   _wife_  an escort to distract her from her worries.”

Pietro froze in place, his blue eyes wide with shock as they flicked between the god and his twin. “Wanda! You _didn’t!_ ”

“I did, but it is all right, my brother—”

“It isn’t! He will _tell—”_

“He won’t! He understands… his mother was like us—”

“I don’t care what he—what?” The look of confusion on his face was almost comical. “She was Sokovian?”

“No Pietro!” She reached out, brushing her finger tips along the earring in his ear. “She was in love with her _twin_.”

“I do not believe this! He tries to win your trust with lies—”

“Read the old myths, young one. I do not lie—the truth is far more interesting than anything I could conceive.” The god winked as he raised Mjölnir to the sky—then he was gone.

“Come, my Pietro,” Wanda said sweetly, lacing their fingers together; her mind caressed his, sending pictures of the secret place deep in the woods where they often escaped to celebrate their love. “I have learned much that I must share with you, but first…  there is something we must do, yes?”

He didn’t need argue; scooping her up, he raced off into the darkness, his mind consumed with something other than explanations—it was locked on the promise in his beautiful sister’s smile, and the way her glorious body would welcome soon him home.

 

* * *

 

A/N: If anyone is curious as to how I came up with Frigga/Freya connection, it's actually a common theory among Norse scholars. If anyone is interested, I posted a bit of info || [H E R E](http://chovihanni.tumblr.com/private/131203286158/tumblr_nw8wjebJZE1uwdwrz) ||  ;o)


	23. S E C R E T S ☿ T H E  F O O D  F I G H T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As referenced in the drabble 'Secrets'—the twins have a food fight that leads to something... more.

“Pietro… what exactly are you looking for?” I swung my feet, watching from my perch on the counter top as he rooted through the cabinets with a look of intense concentration on his face.

“I don’t know yet… something. I’ll know when I find it.”

“If you tell me what you’re hungry for, I’ll fix it—”

“That would take entirely too long—I just want a snack… something sweet.” He moved over to the large, walk in pantry, disappearing from view.

“I could bake some cookies… that would only take twenty minutes or so.”

“Too long—”

“You realize you’ve been looking for far longer than that, yes? They could already be cooling by now.” I pointed out. “Look up on the top shelf, there’s a box of candy bars—”

“I don’t want chocolate,” he huffed, reappearing—moving over to the refrigerator. “I am not in a chocolate kind of mood.”

“Ice cream?”

“No.”

“This is ridiculous! You are just being contrary” I scowled, irritated that he kept dismissing everything I suggested. “Just grab something already!”

“It’s not my fault that nothing sounds good—oh… hello… what’s this?”

He sounded so intrigued that it roused my curiosity; I hopped down from the counter, bumping him with my hip to get him to scoot over so I could see what he’d grabbed. “Reddi Whip? What’s that supposed to be?”

"It says it is a dairy whipped topping made with real cream—hey!” He scowled at me ferociously as I snatched the can from his hand. “Rudeness!”

“I want to see what’s in it!” I said, turning the can over to read the label—my brow furrowing at the long list of ingredients. “Pietro… whipped cream is nothing more than sugar and vanilla and heavy cream… not Maltodextrin and Polysorbate and Carrageenan—whatever that is.”

He grabbed another can off the shelf, tearing off the top it and shooting a stream of the fluffy white contents in his mouth. His eyes widened with surprise as he  mumbled around the mouthful. “It’s sweet—I like it!”

“It’s nothing but weird chemicals that are probably horrible for your body. I don’t think you should—”

“So long as they taste good—who cares?” He filled his mouth again, grinning.

“It will make you sick—”

“You’re harping.” He eyed the can in his hand—his eyes flicked up to my face, lips slowly curving up in an evil looking smile. “You should try some—”

“Pietro—don’t!” I spun around to flee as soon as the thought flickered through his mind, but he was far too quick—he grabbed my arm, pulling me flush against his body.

“Sweets for my sweet little sister,” he teased, shooting a stream of the sticky topping in my face.

“Pietro! Stop that!” I sputtered indignantly, trying to squirm free.

“Taste it and I’ll let you go.”

“I won’t! It is probably toxic!”

“It’s not—” his tongue swiped along my cheek. “It is very tasty.”

“Ewww!” I shrieked, struggling harder, “You’re making me slimy!”

“You’ve never complained about my licking you before, Pietra,” he teased, squirting me again.

“Shhhh!” I hissed. “Someone might hear you!”

“They all went to some meeting in the city—ouch!  Damn it! That hurt!” He jerked his hand back, eyeing the imprint my teeth left in his arm; I took full advantage of his distraction, squirting him in the face with  the can I held in my hand.

“Not so fun is it?” I cackled, backpedaling. “How do they say here… payback is a bitch, my brother…”

“Ohhhh now you are in for it.” He shook his head like a dog, sending whipped cream splattering all over the kitchen—advancing towards me.

I darted around the island in the middle of the room, trying to keep it between us; his thoughts started buzzing—I shouted out in protest. “No speed! That is cheating—”

The last word came out a mumble as he filled my mouth full of the topping; I choked, spitting it out. “Ugh! It’s awful!”

“Now who is being contrary?” He grabbed my arm, spinning me around—pinning me against the island; I grunted as my stomach smashed against the edge. “Admit it—you really think it’s good.”

“I don’t! You can’t bully me into saying it either!” I jerked from side to side, trying to shake him off. “Pietro! You aren’t playing fair!”

“All’s fair in love and war, little Pietra.” He groaned as I bumped my rear back against him—an attempt to gain some leeway; grabbing my ponytail, he used it to turn my head to the side—coating my neck with the cream.

“You know I hate being sticky Pietro Maximoff!” I huffed, using all my strength in an attempt to break free.

“Stop squirming! You can’t win—” he said, sounding smug, “—and we both know you don’t really want to anyway.”

“I do so! You let me go—ohhhhh.” My voice trailed off into a low moan as his tongue slowly traveled along my neck; teeth grazed my skin, followed by the tantalizing feeling of him gently sucking on my neck. “Mhmmmmm…”

“Still want me to move?” His whisper tickled my ear as he thrust his hips against me—his erection teasingly tormented me as it pressed against my rear.

“Noooo…. Well…yes,” I murmured, turning my head to give him better access to my neck.

“That’s what I tho—what? You do?” Shock slammed into my mind, interwoven with a sizeable amount of _hurt_ ; immediately, he released me, stepping back—completely misunderstanding my meaning.

Despite myself,  I giggled as I turned around to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I meant I want you to move so we can go upstairs to our suite, my brother… where we can continue our fun without fear of prying eyes, yes?”

“Oh… I thought you meant… you didn’t want to...” He blushed, avoiding my eyes.

“You should know better—have I _ever_ told you no in all our lives?”

“There is a first time for everything,” he mumbled, sliding his arms around me.

“Not for this there isn’t—especially not when I have worked up a hunger myself.” My mind brushed his, sharing the image of what I planned to do once we reached our room; the depiction of me using my tongue to slowly clean the sweet whipped topping off of his cock made him groan with need.

Growling, he grabbed the can I’d dropped—scooping me up and tossing me over his shoulder. My laughter trailed after us as he sprinted towards our suite—almost knocking a very shocked looking Clint Barton off his feet as we blurred passed him, speeding down the hall.

Later, when I could properly think, I knew I would contemplate how close we’d come to getting caught—but in that moment, I was feeling far too frisky to fret about such things. I trailed my hands down Pietro’s back, feeling his muscles moving beneath my palms—mentally telling him to _hurry_.

He’d had his little snack—now it was _my_   turn, and I was absolutely _ravenous…_ for _him._


	24. Trick or Treat

“Pietro… explain to me why we are doing this?” I shifted, trying not to flinch as he smeared something cold on my face.

“It is a tradition—you dress up in costumes and go from house to house  to get candy. Imagine it, Wanda! People are going to give us _candy_ just for ringing their doorbells!” His voice was so full of excitement that I knew if he didn’t watch it, he would start—

Too late—before I could even finish the thought, he blurred before my eyes. “Calm down! You are vibrating—”

“I can’t help it! We are going to have more candy than we can eat!”

“You will mess up my makeup,” I pointed out gently. “Then we will have to start all over again from the beginning.”

My logic worked like a charm; he stopped moving, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His face scrunched in an expression of intense concentration that was so adorable I couldn’t help but giggle; stretching up, I brushed a kiss against his cheek—careful not to smear the pale makeup on his skin.

“Wanda! Don’t mess up—”

“I didn’t! Honestly Pietro—” rolling my eyes, I poked him in the stomach, “—I am very offended! I think perhaps you love the idea of getting candy more than you love me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous—your kisses are far sweeter than all the candy in the world.” Chewing on the corner of his lip, he scooped up the eyeliner he’d snatched from my cosmetics bag. “Now hold still—I’m almost done.”

“Do I get to know what I am supposed to be?” I squirmed, just a little—I was more excited at the prospect of  being able to regress and act childish for an evening than I cared to admit.

“We will be a matched pair—”

“We already are without putting on makeup and—”

“Wanda! Stop talking! You made me mess up your stitches!” He huffed, scowling at me.

“I’m sorry!”

He licked his finger, swiping at the spot that offended him. “You should be—I want you to look perfect.”

“It is not really fair, you know,” I said, trying to talk without moving my lips. “I should’ve had a say in choosing—”

“Clearly you shouldn’t—then it wouldn’t be a surprise. Besides… I know you… you would have picked something twinsy.”

“So? What’s wrong with that?” I asked indignantly.

He kissed the tip of my nose.  “Nothing… but I wanted us to wear _couples_   costumes. This is the one night that we can act like a couple in public without anyone saying it is inappropriate or giving us rude looks.”

When he put it like that, I couldn’t help but warm to the idea. “I think I will like this holiday quite a bit.”

“Not having to hide our relationship _and_  getting lots of candy… what could be better?”

“It is too bad we don’t have actual costumes to wear—”

“We do—Laura made them for us.” He flashed me a dazzling smile—looking pleased with himself. “She is very talented… you will see.” He eyed me critically for a moment, then dropped the eyeliner; grabbing me around the waist, he lifted me down from my perch on the bathroom counter—swatting me playfully on the rear. “Now go sit on the bed, no peeking! I have to get our costumes from Laura.”

Giggling, I wiggled my ass as I moved to obey his orders. As I sprawled across the bed to wait, I couldn’t help but smile at how sneaky Laura had been behaving recently—Pietro wasn’t the only one she’d been plotting with.  On our last shopping expedition into the city, she’d steered me into a little store that specialized in…well… rather _unique_   items—as a result, I had a surprise of my own for Pietro… one I planned on delivering at the end of the evening.

“Up up up! Hurry—they’re waiting on us!” He skid to a stop beside the bed, tugging me to my feet. “Arms up!”

I closed my eyes, raising my arms—we’d perfected the art of quick changes; I stood still as a mannequin while Pietro buzzed around me at high speed, sliding the clothing on me far faster than I could have managed on my own. He was very thorough—the only thing I had to do was jiggle everything into place when he was done.

“Well? What do you think?” Finished with his own changing, he held out his arms, flashing me a hundred watt grin. “Creative, yes?”

I stared at him for a moment, then turned to look in the mirror, laughter bubbling up inside me. “We are the scary Christmas people!”

“Nightmare Christmas people,” he corrected, smile widening. “I thought of it when we watched the movie with the little ones. I am Jack Skellington, and you are my beautiful Sally, yes?”

“It is brilliant! You did a wonderful job, my brother! I cannot believe you managed to keep it from me for such  a long time—”

“Talk later—we have to go! Candy is waiting for us Wanda!” Scooping me up, he sped downstairs, where the Barton family was waiting.

Our first American Halloween had officially begun.

 

WHEN YOU HAVE THE ability to move so fast that you feel like you are flying, there is nothing quite as frustrating as having someone clip your wings; I know this because Pietro’s  vexation flowed into me nonstop for the entire thirty minute trip into the nearest town. In between long, drawn out, overly dramatic sighs, he  muttered about Laura’s driving abilities—namely, her preference to go at a snail’s pace;  thankfully, he did it in Sokovian so Lila and Cooper—who were sitting on the bench seat right in front of us—couldn’t understand.

In an attempt to still his restlessness and calm him, I reached over, taking his hand and drawing it up to my lips—pressing a soft kiss against his palm; it worked—he stopped fidgeting, the tension draining out of his muscles as he slumped back against the seat,

I didn’t stop to think about the fact we had an audience—not until Cooper made a sound of disgust, drawing my eyes his way; he was trying to disentangle his hand from Lila’s, completely oblivious to the look of hurt on his little sister’s face.

“I was just trying to make you smile,” she released his hand, crossing her arms across her chest.

“I don’t want your gross girl cooties,” he shot back, scooting as far away from her as he could get on the seat.

“Pietro always smiles when Wanda does it.” Her face scrunched up, eyes filling with tears.

 I flicked my gaze to the front of the van—Laura and Clint were singing along with the radio, completely oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the rear of the van. “It is different for us, Lila—”

“Nu-uh! You’re brother and sister too,” she huffed.

“Yes but you are only Cooper’s  sister,” Pietro said absentmindedly, “not his—”

“ _Twin,”_  I said quickly, giving him a mental slap—the Barton children were far too young to hear what he’d been on the verge of saying. “The fact we were born together means we share everything… even the same… _cootie_   bugs.”

My answer seemed to appease the girl, but I could tell she was still hurting from Cooper’s rude rebuff; my mind reached out to Pietro—I watched him closely, arching a questioning brow.

Nodding, he released my hand—extending it towards Lila. “You know… in a way, you are _our_  family now too. So… you have another older brother who has long since outgrown foolish notions about ‘girly germs’, yes?”

It was obvious Pietro’s words intrigued her—she blushed as he winked, flashing her a heart stopping smile; I bit my lip to keep from giggling as she hesitantly reached over, taking my brother’s hand. Her eyes flicked over to me, as if she was worried I would be upset by her actions—I brushed her mind, reassuring her it was fine.

“Does that mean I can hold Wanda’s hand?” Cooper asked as he turned around to give me a look—one that belonged on the face of a boy far beyond his years.

“No,” Pietro huffed, gently popping him on the back of the head. “No one holds Wanda’s hand but _me._ ”

“Besides—I am a girl too, which means I have the germs, yes?” I reached over, ruffling his hair. “In fact, I am much older than Lila, and bigger, so I have more of them.”

Soft laughter from the front seat caught my attention; Clint was watching us over his shoulder. He grinned as our eyes met, slowly nodding his head; I blushed, averting my gaze—feeling absurdly pleased at the approving look on his face. It had been a very long time since Papa had been alive to rave about my accomplishment, but I still remembered how good it felt to make him proud; that same feeling was coursing through me, roused by the look of paternal pride on Clint Barton’s face.

“Okay, everyone knows the rules,” Laura called over her shoulder—pulling over to the curb. “No eating anything until we check it—that goes for you too, Pietro.”

Beside me, my brother huffed, making a face—I poked him in the ribs, mentally telling him to _behave._

“Stay with the twins—no wandering off… and don’t forget to say ‘thank you’—”

“We _know_  mom,” Cooper groaned, tugging open the side door. “God, we’re not three—”

“Watch it Coop,” Barton gave his oldest a stern look, “Unless you  _want_ to miss out on trick or treating over a smart mouth.”

“Sorry,” Cooper muttered, jumping out of the van; I was pleased to see him turn to help his little sister down. Pietro followed them, bouncing on the balls of his feet, glancing around the neighborhood.

“Be back here in _two_   hours young man—don’t make us track you down.”

“I will make sure of it,” I promised, moving to climb out after the children and Pietro.

“Wanda—” Clint’s voice stopped me before I reached the door. “Most people won’t give candy to teenagers or adults… I tried to tell Pietro that, but I don’t think he believed me.”

I frowned, glancing out the door; my brother was just as excited as the children—the thought of him being disappointed made my heart twist in my chest. “Okay… thank you for warning me.”

 “We don’t want him to miss out on the fun,” Laura shot me a concerned smile. “I stocked up on candy for him at home… just in case he doesn’t get any.”

Clint sighed, rubbing his forehead “Just try to keep him in line—don’t let him lose his temper.”

“Easier said than done,” I muttered. Barton still didn’t fully grasp one very important thing—for us, emotions spread faster than a contagious disease. If Pietro lost his temper, I would too—and  _that_   was a far more dangerous thing.

“Wanda! Come on already!” Pietro leaned in the open door, grabbing me around the waist and jerking me outside.

“Rudeness! I was _talking—_ ”

“For far too long—let’s go already!”

“I’m with him—if we don’t hurry, all the good candy will be gone.” Cooper tried to imitate my brother’s best glare—too bad for him it didn’t work. He looked about as ferocious as a temperamental puppy.

“Leave Wanda alone! Both of you!” Lila scowled at them, taking my hand. “Or I’ll tell mom that you’re bullying!”

“Okay, okay—jeeze!” Her brother shot Pietro a conspiring look. “Girls!”

“Impossible, yes?” Pietro agreed, looking solemn. “It gets worse as they age.”

Ignoring them both, I tossed my hair back, mustering up my haughtiest expression as I set off down the street, tugging Lila along beside me; I could hear them whispering back and forth behind us as they followed—probably comparing notes on how irritating little sisters could be.

The ‘us versus them’ mentality didn’t last long—it disappeared entirely as I steered Lila up the front walk to the nearest house;  Pietro caught my arm, holding me back—waving the children ahead.

“I thought you were in such a hurry,” I murmured, glancing over at him; he was watching our young charges approach the door with a look of intense concentration on his face.

“I am—but I want to be sure we do it right. If we mess up, we might not get candy.”

I rolled my eyes, but held my tongue—if what Barton said was true, in all likelihood, we wouldn’t be getting any treats either way.

The homeowner answered the door—he was a big, burly man of middle age, with a voice so loud we could hear it clearly from where we stood. “What do we have here? A pirate and… the ghost of a jogger?”

“No! I’m Quicksilver!” Cooper practically shouted—voice full of indignation; I didn’t blame him in the slightest—he was proud of his clever costume. He’d used flour in his hair in an attempt to lighten it to a shade similar to my brother’s, and his mother had altered on of Pietro’s spare uniforms to fit his much smaller frame.

“Ghost jogger,” Pietro huffed. “ _Clearly_   the man is an imbecile.”

“Clearly,” I echoed in agreement. “Cooper is not transparent in the slightest, and no regular jogger would have a fancy uniform.”

“Come on—it’s our turn,” he grabbed my hand, tugging me towards the door as it closed.

“Wait by the mailbox for us—remember what your mother said,” I instructed the children as they passed us on the walkway.

Summoning up his biggest smile, Pietro knocked on the door; it opened—he held out his bag expectantly. “Trick or Tre—”

“What the hell is this, some kinda joke?” The man cut him off, glaring.

Pietro looked confused for a moment, then shook his head, trying again. “No sir. Trick or—”

“Get the hell off my porch.” The door slammed in our faces.   

Hurt… confusion… disappointment—they wove together, flowing into me as my brother stared in bewilderment at his empty sack; he looked so upset that I acted without thinking, raising my fist to pound on the door.

It jerked open—the man glared at me, as if he thought I would be frightened by such a pathetic expression of disdain. “You deaf, girlie? Or just dumb?”

“You interrupted my brother before he could finish.” My voice was ice; I could feel my power stirring—energy vibrated in my palms. “Which is not very courteous. Pietro… go ahead.”

“Wanda—let’s go.”

“No! Do it!”

“Trick or Treat,” he mumbled, sounding miserable.

“I’m not giving you shit—now get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper.”

“I was _hoping_   you would say that,” I murmured, twitching my fingers. “I believe that means it is time for a  _trick,_  yes?”

The man froze—a tiny hint of red reflected in his eyes as I ensnared his mind and began  rifling through his thoughts.

“Wanda—”

“Shhh—it is  _custom_   my Pietro. Why do you think they say trick   _or_  treat?”

The man made a strangled sound; his eyes darted to the ground, widening in horror  as I wove his greatest fear, laying it at his feet. My fingers twitched again—he whimpered, a wet spot appearing on the front of his sweatpants.

“What—”

“Snakes… king cobras—he is terrified of them. Now… ask him again, my brother,” I whispered.

Pietro grimaced, holding out the bag. “Trick or Treat.”

My fingers twitched again—I loosened my grip on the man’s mind, erasing the cobras I’d created. He shook his head, staring at me in terror—then grabbed the bowl of candy, emptying the contents into Pietro’s sack.  “There… now go away. Please… just… _go.”_

“Thank you sir… have a lovely Halloween.” I said softly, my gaze moving to the houses that lined both sides of the street—I counted how many we had to go, multiplying the number by several blocks. “Come Pietro… the children are waiting.”

“You can’t do that to everyone, Wanda” he huffed. “Maybe he was in a bad mood… I am sure the other people will be more friendly.”

“I have a feeling you are right. I am sure no one else will be so boorish and rude.” I laced my arm through his, smiling—already walling up my mind to prevent him from sensing what I was going to do. I wanted him to fully experience the evening, with the same wide eyed joy that Cooper and Lila had—to have a chance to regain a tiny sliver of the childhood we’d lost at such a young age.

The children ran ahead of us, ringing the bell—as the door started to open, I acted quickly, weaving illusion and slamming it into the woman’s mind. Instead of the tall, strong _man_   beside me, she saw a mop headed little boy with curls hanging in his face. I shared the image that was etched the deepest in my heart—my beloved brother as a beautiful, angelic looking child.

The woman doled out candy without hesitation, cooing over how adorable everyone looked—she even gave some to me. Her kindness erased the hurt in Pietro’s eyes—his excitement and happiness rekindled, lapping against my skin like a warm summer rain.

“See! She was nice,” He murmured as we walked away—casting a suspicious glance at my self-satisfied smile. “You didn’t…  do anything… did you?”

“Nothing, Beloved. She saw _you_ … nothing else.” Technically it wasn’t a lie—it was the truth, albeit a slightly skewered version. His brow wrinkled—he could sense my deception, but thankfully Cooper distracted him before he could pry.

“Come on Pietro!” The boy grabbed my brother’s arm, towing him up the next walkway. “The old lady who lives here gave out _full size_   chocolate bars last year!”

Pietro let out an excited whoop, speeding them towards the door; I closed my eyes, automatically snagging the old woman’s mind as the door opened.

It was going to be a very busy night.

 

BY THE TIME OUR TWO HOURS HAD PASSED, I was beginning to tire; as odd as it seems, mental manipulation is much more draining than using my power to fight. I do not know if it requires a different form of energy, or if it’s just the sheer amount _noisy thoughts_ that  I have to wade through in other people’s minds—either way, it takes a toll. My head hurt—white hot flickers of pain danced behind my eyes as an ache throbbed in my temples in time with the beat of my heart. My proactive efforts to avoid having Pietro’s excitement tarnished had worked—but now I was paying the cost.

We weren’t in the van for five minutes before the pain finally breached the mental barriers I’d erected between our minds; wincing, Pietro cursed under his breath, reaching over to pull me closer. I stretched out on the bench seat, resting my head in his lap; his long, elegant fingers gently rubbed my temples in an effort to soothe away the worst of the pain.

“What did you do? Don’t tell me nothing—I can feel the aching.”

“I’m just overtired,” I murmured, closing my eyes.

“Wanda… tell me.”

Shrugging, I sighed. “Barton said they wouldn’t give candy to an adult… so I made them see you as a child.”

He cursed again. “How many?”

“All of them but the first.” I rubbed my cheek against him like a cat, pouting. “Don’t scold me—I wanted you to have a good time, and you did. It was worth it.”

“It isn’t! You are _in pain—_ ”

“We both know there is only one surefire cure for my headaches… you can help me get rid of it as soon as we are alone.” My lips curved up in a smile as his cock automatically stirred, the hardness of his arousal pressing against  my cheek. Perhaps it was nothing more than an old wives tale to some, but for me, sex always clears up my headache in no time flat—especially when he kicks up the speed of his thrusts, leaving me in a quivering, multi orgasmic haze.

“Stop the van!”

His unexpected demand echoed loudly in the confined space—I wasn’t the only one who jumped. Laura slammed on the breaks, twisting around in the driver’s seat—eyes automatically locking on her children. “What’s wrong?”

“My sister is sick—I need to get her home.”

“We’ll be there in less than—”

“Too long—she needs to be there _now._ ”

Despite my aching head, I was thoroughly amused; I bit my lip, trying not to laugh—Pietro scowled when a muffled snort escaped me. “Open the door Cooper… I think she is going to vomit.”

“Pietro, relax—”

He had me in his arms and out of the can before Clint could get out whatever he planned to say.

_“That was very naughty, my brother,”_  I whispered through his mind, closing my eyes  and burying my face in the crook of his neck.

He slowed his pace just enough for the static in his mind to thin. _“Completely your fault—you are a temptress.”_

The wind stole my peal of laughter as soon as it left my lips; in the blink of an eye he was sliding to a stop, unlocking the front door of the farmhouse. Before I could get my bearings he took off again—setting me down gently beside our bed.

“I do not trust myself to undress you—I will rip your costume,” he mumbled, tugging off his clothes.

“It is just as well… I need to use the bathroom first.”

 

He grabbed my arm before I could take two steps, tugging me to a stop. “But you said—”

“I know… but I _have_ to use the bathroom, Mr. Impatience,” I teased, pulling away.

He huffed. “Well hurry!”

I did—not even taking the time to wipe off the elaborate makeup; after popping two aspirin to dull the worst of the pain, I shed my clothing, quickly retrieving the lingerie I’d hidden away behind a stack of clean towels. Shimmying into the matching bra and panties, I covered them with my robe—a quick glance in the mirror verified that nothing was peeking out that might spoil the surprise. 

“You took entirely too long,” he announced as I stepped out into the bedroom; his clothes were in a heap on the floor—his beautiful nude body was sprawled across the bed.

I paused for a moment, appreciating the view, my eyes running over his lean muscles. “I think you will find it was worth the wait, my Pietro…”

An eyebrow arched skyward. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing much… I just happen to have a little something for you—but first you must answer a question.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Alright… what is it?”

“Do you want a trick… or do you want a treat?”

His blue eyes darkened, tongue swiping along his lips. “Do you mean that the way I think?”

I smiled sweetly. “Of course.”

“Then my answer would have to be… a treat.”

Tugging the tie that held my robe closed, I shrugged my shoulders, letting the silky material slide off my body, pooling around my feet. His mouth dropped open—it took him a moment to remember how to speak.

“Wanda… is that… it’s not….”

“It’s not what?”

He swallowed, eyes wide. “Is it… _real_  candy?”

“It is…you chose treat, remember?”

He blinked. “But… what if I had said trick? Would that still have involved the… candy?”

“It would have… plus a little something… _extra_ to add to your enjoyment. Are you considering changing your answer, my brother?” I ran my fingertips along the swell of my breasts, arching a brow.

He nodded slowly. “Trick. I chose trick.”

My fingers twitched—two ribbons of pulsing red energy lashed around his wrists, encircling the bedpost to hold him in place; I climbed up on the bed, straddling his body—leaning forward so that my candy covered breasts hung in his face… just out of reach. “I was hoping you would say that.”

By the time the night was over, he’d consumed every single bit of the candy that decorated my skin—but only after I’d teased and tormented every single inch of his body with my tongue. He thrashed against the bonds that held him, begging for release long before I was through—however, I did not give in. He couldn’t very well have his treat until _after_   my trick was complete—after all, _he_   was the one who’d changed his answer.

All in all, despite getting off to a rocky start, our Halloween ended up a rousing success; now I just have to figure out a way to surprise him on our next official American holiday—Thanksgiving.

I wonder…  do they make sexy pilgrim costumes?

—W.M.

                                                                                             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Pally_The_Second : I'm working on the Halloween prompt you suggested right now—I'm going to try and get it up by tonight, fingers crossed!


	25. S E C R E T S ☿ T R A I N I N G

### As referenced in the drabble '[Secrets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4050628/chapters/11495578)'—the twins have a hard time focusing on training.

* * *

As we watched Romanov and Wilson face off across the mats, I could not help but feel envious of the way the Widow moved; even in combat she was graceful—lithe and serpentine, with the sort of fluidity that someone as clumsy as me could never hope to achieve. She transformed the brutal act of fighting into something beautiful—had there been music playing, it would have been easy to believe that she and Sam were using interpretive dance to tell a story with their bodies instead of engaging in hand to hand combat.

“Do you see what I did there? The feign? When an opponent sees a move like that, their instinct is to take the opening you’ve presented…“ her voice was calm and even—she wasn’t even out of breath, despite the intensity of their fight. “Wanda? Are you _listening_ to me?”

“Of course—you think perhaps I am just standing here daydreaming?” It came out sounding harsher than I’d intended, but I couldn’t help it—she had the irritating habit of acting like I was some sort of little ditz, unable to focus on lessons.

“Alright then—show me.” She dropped her hands, moving towards us; Wilson followed, wiping his brow on the arm of his shirt.

“You do not listen—I do not want to fight with my sister,” Pietro huffed, scowling at our instructors as they joined us on the sidelines. “I am bigger and stronger… I might accidentally cause her pain.”

“You aren’t going to hurt her.” Sam frowned. “Think of it like… wrestling—didn’t the two of you ever rough house when you were kids?”

Pietro and I looked at each other—memories of a certain tickle fight turned wrestling match that left us both aching and yearning for something more flowed between us across our bond. My lips curved up in a secretive smile as I claimed his hand, lacing our fingers—he chuckled, ducking his head down to press a kiss against my temple.

“If you can’t pay attention we’ll be forced to train you separately,” Romanov snapped—the irritation in her voice pulling me out of our memories.

“We _are_   paying attention—you want us to wrestle,” I said, crossly.

“Then do it and stop grinning at each other.” Sam gestured towards the padded mats, looking stern. “We haven’t got all day.”

I scowled. “I don’t see the point in all this—”

“You don’t have to see the point—just _do_  it. That’s an _order_.”

Pietro sighed, moving towards the mats—tugging me along behind him; I shot a venomous look at our instructors—muttering a curse in our mother tongue under my breath. My mind reached out, brushing against my brother’s—making my displeasure known.

_“They treat us like misbehaving children.”_

He smiled, gathering my long hair together—securing it in a ponytail with the rubber band he kept around his wrist for just such an occasion. _“I know sweet sister… just play along, yes?”_

I huffed, but I held my tongue and did as he asked—telling myself to pretend it was just some silly game in an attempt to soothe away the irritation that gnawed at me. We circled each other warily the same way our instructors did—trying to act as though we were incorporating their ridiculous lessons about body language telegraphing movement. They failed to consider one very important factor—we didn’t _need_   to watch for sudden gestures or tiny ‘tells’. Images flew back and forth between our minds—advanced warning to our movements so we could better deflect blows; that was _our_  instinctive response—and it was something that was completely beyond our control. Despite that fact, I knew Romanov and Wilson would consider it a form of cheating.

“Stop! This isn’t working—they know each other too well.” The Widow stepped back onto the mats, jerking her thumb towards Sam. “Wanda—watch me fight Pietro, then you can try to duplicate what I do with Sam.”

I scowled, yielding the floor to her, despite the fact that every single part of me was protesting the very thought. I didn’t like the idea of Romanov physically interacting with my twin in any way, shape or form. Pietro winked at me, immediately sidestepping the punch she threw at his face.

“He’s a good fighter,” Wilson said softly as I sank down beside him on the floor. His eyes were locked on my brother, studying his form. “A little rough around the edges, but we can polish that up.”

“You all seem to forget that we were on our own at ten years old—he realized fairly fast that if he wanted to keep us safe from the predators on the street… he had to learn to fight. It was a necessity.”

“Didn’t think about that—sorry.” He shot me a rueful grin. “Guess it’s hard for me to imagine what it must have been like being on your own so young. I don’t know if I could’ve handled that as a kid.”

I shrugged. “Our childhood ended the day the shells hit our home. Physically we were young, but mentally… we were forced to grow up very fast—we had to if we wanted to survive.”

A wave of pain hit me—I hissed; Pietro’s concentration had waivered—his interest in what Wilson and I were discussing had provided Romanov with the chance to land a blow. “Perhaps you should remind Romanov that we are all on the same team. She should not be hitting him so hard.”

“Nah—“ Wilson chuckled, leaning back on his elbows—stretching his long legs out in front of him. “—trust me, she’s going easy on him. If she wanted him unconscious, he’d already be on the floor.”

“I think this is not fair—we are not allowed to utilize our abilities, but she has been training since she was a child, yes? It gives her a distinct advantage. If Pietro was allowed to use his speed, she wouldn’t be able to hit him.”

“You aren’t seeing the bigger picture, Wanda—this isn’t about all that. You have to know how to handle yourself _without_   relying on the extras. If we’re in the middle of combat and something happens—”

“The _worst_ possible thing already happened—my abilities did not vanish when my brother fell. If anything, my rage made them more intense.”

“Yeah and what if you’d been trying to protect civilians at the time? Say… in a room, surrounded by helpless kids?  Innocents could get hurt Wanda—what you’ve got… it’s unpredictable. It’s my job to make sure you’re trained to _physically_ fight if it comes to it and to make sure you can _control_  yourself, preventing casualties.”

“Pietro’s power is different—it is not as wild as mine,” I argued. “So why does he have to learn—”

“What if his energy crashes? If he gets winded or—”

“If that happens he’ll hardly be able to throw a punch or utilize these ridiculous moves,” I snapped.

Wilson smirked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s another reason you have to learn—it’ll be your job to protect _him_  while he catches his breath. Don’t you get it? We’re not training him during these sessions—he’s already got this shit down pat. We’re teaching _you_   the skills you’ll need in the field to watch your partner’s back.”

My mouth dropped open—I stared at him dumbly for a second. “Partners?”

“Mhmmm—we’re a team, but we still occasionally have to partner up on missions. The two of you being twins… we figured you’d want to work together.”

“Of course that is what we want! I will _never_   leave his side in a fight again—” I winced—a wave of pain slammed into me, pulling my attention away from the man beside me, drawing my eyes back to the mats. Pietro was flat on his back, glaring at Romanov with an irritated look on his face.

She’d pinned him.

A growl of fury escaped me before I could catch it; Wilson chuckled, getting to his feet—offering me a hand up. “Guess that means it’s our turn.”

“No. I want to spar with my brother again.”

“Sorry—not gonna happen. You heard what Natasha said, Wanda—”

“I do not particularly _care_ what   _she_ said—furthermore, if she does not remove her body from atop my brother’s… we are going to have a very serious problem.” My voice was soft, but edged with razorblades as I slowly turned my head towards him; he flinched, but whether it was from the expression on my face or the implied threat of violence my words conveyed, I do not know. I was too far gone in my territorial anger to attempt contrived niceties.

“Uh… Nat? You might want to let him up.”

The sound of Romanov’s low, sultry chuckle as she rolled of Pietro notched my anger even higher. “Is someone getting prickly?”

“That is far too mild a word for what I am feeling, Madam.” I clenched my hands into fists—an attempt to control the overwhelming urge to twitch my fingers in her direction, frying every synapse in her brain. “I understand now what the two of you are wanting—I need to block off our bond when we fight.”

Wilson shot me a skeptical look. “You can do that?”

I rolled my eyes at the disbelief in his voice. “Of course I can… but it is not a pleasant thing. It takes a great deal of effort and concentration—the bond is a natural gift we’ve had since birth.  It was already present when we were… enhanced—List’s experiments… they simply made it stronger… deeper.”

“I’m game.” He shrugged, glancing over at Romanov. “That okay with you?”

Moving towards us, she narrowed her eyes—studying me intently. “Fine… but this is your _last_ chance. If it doesn’t work—”

I cut her off, trying to ignore the burning tingle in my palms. “It _will_  work—do not make the mistake of _ever_   underestimating the strength of my _mind.”_

“ _No_! You cannot tell her to shut me out!” Pietro sprung to his feet, his handsome face full of fury. “It is _unnatural_! Wrong!”

_“Be calm my love—I will not do this thing. But we must give them the show they demand, yes?”_ As I brushed his mind with my soothing words, I moved towards him, trying to mimic the stance the Widow had used. _“We will use our gift still. I promise.”_

His brow wrinkled as he watched me. _“But—”_

_“There are no ‘buts’—one of us must win. Either you pin me or I pin you—if there is no victor they will insist on separate lessons.”_

_“I will not hit you Wanda! You cannot ask this of me!”_

_“You do not have to—sometimes what others see is not what is actually real.”_

_“If they sense you in their minds—”_

_“Pietro! Think! Remember those old movies Mrs. Kolinov loved so much—with the big man, John Wayne fighting in them? Remember what she explained about it not being real fighting? That is what we will do.”_

Realization flowed across his face—his lips twitched up in a mischievous grin. The entirety of our discourse lasted less than a minute; I stole a surreptitious glance at our instructors—they were watching us carefully as we circled each other, but their expressions clearly indicated they had no idea we’d been conferring in our minds.

I shifted so my back was facing them—confident that my body would block their view just enough to make it next to impossible for them to spot our deception. _“Do it Pietro! Now!”_

His fist lashed out, missing my chin by less than an inch—I jerked my head to the side as if the blow had connected, letting out a contrived hiss of pain.

“You have to immediately counter, Wanda,” Romanov called out from the sideline. “You have to work past the initial impact and—”

“I know! Shut up and let me do it already!” I snapped, shooting her a furious look.

Pietro’s laughter echoed through my head. _“Your turn, sweet sister.”_

_“Not yet… too soon. We must make it believable.”_ I lunged at him, darting to the side at the last minute—using my smaller stature to my advantage, just the way I’d been taught; he spun around, grabbing me around the waist, but I wiggled free, jumping back to increase the distance between us. When he attempted to close in on me, I kicked out—aiming down low, towards his shins. Cursing, he stumbled, as if the barely there grazing of my foot had hurt.

Wilson let out an excited whoop. “Good job!”

I smirked. _“You see? It is almost too easy.”_

Something flickered across Pietro’s face—I knew what was coming before he moved, but even without using his gift… he was almost too fast for me. Dropping, I rolled to the side—narrowly avoiding being grabbed. It was at that moment I realized the glaringly obvious flaw in my plan.

Fighting is a very physical, animalistic thing—even when it is feigned. When sparring with a lover, the heated intensity of the moment… the adrenaline racing through your system…  it is a heady, _arousing_ thing.

Trying to ignore the way my body responded to the brush of his fingers against my sweaty skin, I swung at him; it was a blow that barely skimmed his side—but judging by his reaction, you’d have thought I’d broken one of his ribs.

_“Pietro! No over dramatics!”_

_“I am trying to make it look real!”_

_“I am not Thor, for God’s sake! They know I am not very strong!”_

His smile turned almost feral as he circled me. “ _I am sorry…  it is becoming hard to focus. This… it is very stimulating, yes?”_

I bit my lip, ducking as he punched. _“Yes… it is making me think of… other things.”_

I realized a split second too late that it was the worst response I could give; he vanished, white noise filling my head as he blurred around me, far too fast for me to see. Lips grazed mine—hands skimmed across my curves—wetness pooled between my legs as his fingers slid down the front of workout pants, brushing my most private spot. My breath caught in my throat as my cheeks heated—I gasped as those wicked fingers gently probed me, then trembled when they retreated.

“Pietro! No speed!” Romanov shouted.

“Sorry… I forgot.” My brother’s smile of contrition was completely fake; his eyes caught mine as he raised his fingers to his mouth, brushing the glistening wetness of my arousal across his beautiful lips.

When his tongue slipped out, clearing away the moisture… it pushed me over the edge.

Letting out a sound that was a mixture between a moan and a battle cry, I tackled him, catching him completely off guard; despite his greater size and strength, I had the element of surprise in my favor. He stumbled; I hooked my toes behind his ankle, shoving him off balance—riding his body to the ground.

Romanov and Wilson let out appreciative shouts, but to be honest… I have no idea what they said. My maneuver had me straddling my brother’s firm strong body… I was overwhelmed by the sudden closeness—drowning in the delicious scent of the sweat beading on his skin. Every single inch of me yearned to close the distance between our lips, claiming his mouth with my own; his eyes met mine—the crystal blue was almost swallowed up by the darkness of his pupils. The sight betrayed his arousal almost as clearly as the hardness of his cock pressing against me—I pinned his arms above his head, the movement making my breasts flatten against his broad, chest.

_“I need you inside me, my Pietro…I am aching for us to be one.”_

He groaned—his hips rocked up, making me whimper. _“Do not tease me, Pietra_ — _it is not fair!”_

_“You started it with your tormenting touches—now you must pay the price.”_

_“It is one I will gladly pay—once we are in our suite,”_ he fired back, arching up against me.

Lowering my head, I nuzzled along his jaw. _“Oh really? Pray tell, my love… what will you do to make amends?”_

_“Worship every inch of your glorious body with my lips and tongue, of course.”_ He turned his head—our breath comingled; our lips were so close that tremors of excitement danced along the length of my spine even as the burning need to close the distance between our mouths consumed me.

I do not know how long we lay there, our minds caressing as our bodies strained to join; I completely lost all sense of time and place—Pietro was the sole focus of my world. It wasn’t until the overhead light clicked off, plunging us into total darkness that I remembered where we were—releasing his hands, I sat up, blinking as my eyes tried to adjust. I reached out with my mind, searching for Romanov and Wilson, but they were gone—we were completely alone.

“Turning off the lights was very inconsiderate,” I huffed. “They could have at least told us training was done for the day or said goodb—”

My words were silenced by the press of Pietro’s hungry lips—his hands frantically shoved my pants down as he rolled us, pinning me beneath him. A heartbeat later, he slid inside me—the movement of his body driving all thoughts of our instructors and their rude behavior completely out of my mind.   
  
My last rational thought before our shared passion consumed me was that If our training ended like this every single day… I think perhaps I would most definitely start looking forward to attending and stop considering the wretched sessions as a much dreaded chore.

—W.M.

__  
  


 


	26. S E C R E T S ☿ T H E  N O T E B O O K

### As referenced in the drabble '[Secrets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4050628/chapters/11495578)'—Wanda loses something that could expose the truth.

* * *

 

It was one of those rare afternoons when we’d finished our training early—Rogers had a meeting in the city, and Romanov had vanished without a word, leaving poor Sam responsible for our daily lessons; after only an hour he’d called it a day—irritated at my inability to concentrate. (In my defense, it was hardly my fault—Pietro was wearing shorts and I kept getting distracted by the sight of his long, muscular legs.) Immediately, we’d retired to our suite, intending to make good use of the time by working on our super-secret project—something that, in my opinion, was far more important than running ridiculous laps to build up endurance or learning to control my abilities in ways that would better serve the team. We stretched out on the huge bed, laying on our stomachs… or rather, Pietro was laying on the bed—I was laying on _his_ back with my chin resting on his shoulder. (He is far more comfortable than any stupid mattress could ever hope to be.)

“What state were we on?” He asked, drumming his fingers on the laptop impatiently as he waited for it to boot up.

“Mississippi,” I mumbled, kissing his cheek.

“Two esses?”

“Four,” I said, spelling it out for him.

“That is absolutely the most ridiculously spelled word in the entire world,”  he huffed, typing it in.

“You said that already—about Arkansas,” I pointed out. “They cannot both be the most ridiculous.”

“They certainly can—they start with different letters,” he argued. “One is the most ridiculous ‘m’ word, the other is the most ridiculous ‘a’ word.”

Over the past few days we’d been combing the statutes for southern states—searching for ones that allowed unions such as ours, inspired by comments we’d heard while binge watching American television programs; strangely enough, despite all the disparaging remarks about ‘inbreeding between incestuous rednecks in the south’, we had yet to find a single place where consanguinity was legal in the lower half of the country. It seemed that contrary to popular opinion, they actually had much harsher laws than the northern half of the United States when it came to such things.

“Ignoring the fact that it is a violation of basic human rights, isn’t it illegal to have laws that prohibit something that could be considered part of an ethnic culture?”

“Mhmmm… but you have to take into consideration that most people don’t acknowledge the Romani as people, much less an ethnic group—and really, it is a moot point since it is not a Romani custom, Pietro.  Besides, I think the whole cultural thing is a sort of gray area—I mean… if a cannibal tribe moved here from New Guinea and winded up eating their next door neighbors, they would get arrested. It’s against the law to kill people and eat them whether it is cultural or not.”

He chuckled at my analogy. “I meant us being Sokovian citizens—it wasn’t illegal there and we are displaced refugees, yes?”

“Oh... well… yes—but Sokovian is not an ethnicity,” I pointed out. “We are Sokovian citizens but ethnically we are Roma—those things are not interchangeable.”

“You are being argumentative with me,” he huffed. “I do not deserve this rudeness.”

“I am not! I am merely pointing out that the way you phrased your question was confusing,” I shot back, nipping at his earlobe. “I was _clarifying_.”

“Well then let me point out that since our _ethnicity_   has a legend that says our people came from mated twins,” he said, turning his head to flash me an impish smile “that in and of itself could be used as an argument that it is our right to practice the same thing, even if some consider it marimè .”

I considered the statement for a moment, slowly nodding. “That _is_ a good argument. But—”

“No ‘buts’—I win,” he crowed triumphantly, turning his attention back to the laptop. “Scratch Mississippi off the list—ten years imprisonment and fines.”

I huffed, rolling off his back to dig in the pocket of the sweater I was wearing for my notepad—freezing in place when I found the pocket completely empty. “Pietro… do you have our book?”

“Why would I have it? I don’t have pockets.”

“Well… I don’t have it either,” I said, unable to keep my voice from trembling; if anyone found it and read some of the things I’d made note of, our secret would be out of the bag.

“Don’t worry… it doesn’t matter. They won’t be able to read it—”

“Some of it is in English,” I confessed, my face heating as I blushed with embarrassment over my idiotic mistake. “I thought it was good to practice it.”

He groaned. “When was the last time you—”

“In the training room—no… in the lounge. You wanted me to write down that stupid apple pie recipe, remember?”

“Don’t blame this on me! Besides, that is an American classic—a nice surprise for Rogers, yes? I think it would make him very happy if you made it—”

“Pietro! Focus!” I climbed off the bed, storming towards the door, only to be literally swept off my feet; sliding my arms around his neck, I sent up a silent prayer that no one had found our notebook as he kicked into hyperspeed. To my surprise, he sped right past the lounge, rounding the corner before he skid to a stop. “What—”

“Banner is in there… and he is sitting in _our_   chair,” he hissed.

I cursed under my breath. “I’ll wait here while you check the room—you can be in and out again before he notices.”

He shook his head. “I need to check the chair he is in, Wanda—if I get that close… he will know. We’ll just go in and glare at him—you make him nervous… it will make him leave.”

I bristled—irritated at the reminder that the man was still clinging to such a ridiculous grudge. “Fine… let’s get it over wi—”

He took off before I had time to brace myself—my breath caught in my throat, my stomach immediately flipping as if I was in an elevator that had snapped its cable and was hurtling towards the ground.  Forcing myself to move past its queasy quivering, I mustered up my fiercest scowl, affixing it on the scientist as soon as Pietro slid into the room.

“Hey… uh… guys,” Banner mumbled, standing up as Pietro lowered me to my feet; neither of us responded as our eyes flicked around the room, searching for the small pad of paper—we weren’t there to chat.

“I was just… leaving. The room’s all yours.”

Pietro grunted, watching our teammate as he hurried towards the door—immediately speeding over to station himself in the doorway to stand guard; twenty heartbeats later he glanced over at me, nodding. I attacked the chair, tugging off the cushions—letting out a happy screech at the sight of my notebook buried deep in the crease between the arm of the chair and the seat. Scooping it up, I clutched it to my chest, shooting my brother a relieved smile.

“See? You worried for nothing.” Pietro smirked at me, plopping down on the couch.

“You were just as worried as me—”

“Don’t be ridiculous—I wasn’t.”

“You were!”

“Was not.”

“Were too!” I scowled at him as he grabbed the remote and began flipping through the channels. “Pietro! We have to finish our researching—”

“Later—look! The fast bird is on!” He flashed me a pleading look, patting the empty space next to him. “Please Wanda? Just for a little while? It is my favorite cartoon.”

I sighed, unable to resist the look of childlike yearning on his face; sinking down next to him, I eyed the notepad that had given us such a scare—not willing to risk it falling out of my pocket again.

“I think the dog with the explosives is very foolish—how can he not realize he will never catch the meeping bird?” Pietro slid his arm around me, pulling me closer.

I slipped the small book down into the sport brassiere I was wearing—my bosom would hold it in place, preventing it from getting misplaced again—then cuddled up against my brother’s side, resting my head against his shoulder. His happy giggles chased away the remnants of my worries—the sound transported me back to our childhood in Sokovia, when Mama and Papa had still been alive and our lives had been safe and secure.

Happy moments like this were far more important than searching for a state that would accept us; the warmth of his embrace reminded me that no matter where we might be, as long as we were together… we were home.

 


	27. Wanda's Swato

This one was inspired by a Skype conversation between [Pietro](http://walkingitcff.tumblr.com/), [Wanda](http://chovihanni.tumblr.com/), [Bucky](http://repressedidentity.tumblr.com/) and [Natasha](http://russianborn.tumblr.com/), so it is dedicated to the wonderful people who made it flare to life inside my head.

* * *

 

THERE ARE TIMES WHEN being a nice, thoughtful person just does not pay off; you try to do a good deed, only to have it somehow ricochet back and blow up in your face. For instance, the time Bucky left me a voice mail, complaining that Pietro had stopped by and wiped him out of food; naturally I wanted to make amends—after all, I couldn’t very well leave him there starving without anything to eat for dinner.  It wasn’t hard to get in to his apartment—our years on the street had given us an invaluable education on how to open locked doors and windows as a team. While Pietro worked on the lock, I was the lookout, ready to distract any neighbors who might appear; in turn, when I slipped into the apartment, he stood watch outside—ready to sweep in and whisk me away at the slightest sign of trouble.

It took me a moment to get my bearings—the apartment was pitch black and as silent as a tomb. Barnes obviously wasn’t home—I assumed he’d gone out for a bite to eat since my twin had devoured all his food. I didn’t allow his absence to deter me in the slightest—I couldn’t since my arms were overloaded with bags containing groceries and containers of food I’d prepared to replenish what my brother had consumed; as soon as my eyes adjusted to the absence of light, I headed straight for the kitchen—making quick work of unpacking things so I could begin putting them away. I was almost done when a noise from somewhere deeper in the apartment carried down the hallway—it sounded… like a hushed, low moan.

Obviously, I’d been wrong—Bucky was most definitely home.

I froze in place, chewing at my lip—wondering if I was hearing things; a moment later, it came again—even louder this time. Something about the sound bothered me immensely—I shifted from one foot to the other, wondering what I should do. He was obviously having a nightmare about the time he’d spent with HYDRA…. my brother and I often had those too.

 _“Wanda? What is it?”_   Sensing my unease, Pietro reached out, brushing my mind.

_“He is here… I think he is having a bad dream. Should I try and wake—“_

My eyes widened as _another_  moan sounded… one that was most definitely _not_   a male—I backed further into the kitchen, hiding myself in the shadows, wondering if I could escape as silently as I’d come in. My hesitation cost me the precious time I needed; before I could bolt for the exit, a door squeaked, followed by the sound of footsteps heading my way. Mentally I cursed as I tried to wedge myself between the wall and the refrigerator, hoping I would blend in.

_“Pietro! He has a lady friend here—one of them is coming! What do I do?”_

The brightness of the overhead fluorescent light flicking on almost blinded me—immediately, the person gasped. I blinked rapidly, unable to process the fact that a red faced   _Steve Rogers_  was standing right there in front of me wearing nothing more than a sheet draped around his hips.

“Wanda! I… what are you—”

The sound of the front door slamming into the wall startled us both so much that we jumped; a blur slid between us—my brother automatically positioning himself to protect me out of habit as he skid to a stop. “Wha… _Rogers?”_ His forehead wrinkled as he glanced back over at me. “I thought you said you heard—”

“What in the hell are you two doing in my apartment?”

My eyes flicked to the doorway—immediately, I screamed, dropping the bag I was holding so I could cover my eyes. I heard glass breaking as its contents scattered across the floor, but there was nothing I could do.

_The Winter Soldier was standing there looking incredibly angry—as naked as the day he was born._

“Don’t curse in front of my sister,” Pietro growled, “she was trying to do a kind thing—bringing groceries and food she made as a surprise for you!”  
  
“I don’t give a damn… wait… what?” I could hear the confusion in his voice, but there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to look his way to see if it reflected on his face.

“I was replacing what Pietro ate… I did not want you going hungry.” I buried my face in Pietro’s back, not wanting to catch another horrifying glimpse of so much naked male skin. “Could you put something on, please? It is not proper… me seeing you like this. A woman should not see any man but her husband unclothed.”

“I will not—this is _my_   apartment,” he said stubbornly. “Look, kids… I appreciate the thought but—“

“Oh... we have company.” I tensed at the sound of   _another_ familiar voice—my surprise was so great that I was defenseless against the barrage  of images that flickered through my mind. _Barnes… Rogers… Romanov_ … _All three of them together in the bedroom. Moaning. Writhing as they caressed and kissed..._ A choked sound escaped me as I tried to throw up a wall around my mind—it was too much… they were things I wasn’t meant to see.

“Hey… I don’t suppose you brought ice cream—“

“Please tell me you have clothes on,” I mumbled, cutting her off.

She chuckled. “In a manner of speaking.”

Pietro’s voice was soft and soothing in my mind. _“She is wearing one of Bucky’s shirts, my love… do not worry.”_

I reached out, barely brushing her mind with plea. _“Natasha… there is a gallon of chocolate in the freezer. Now please… make him cover his private parts, yes?”_

She snorted—I could feel her amusement with the situation prickling against my skin as she grabbed the ice cream I’d brought. “Come on big guy… I’m going to need help eating this.”

I didn’t move—not even when I heard the sound of feet padding down the hall. _“Are they gone or—”_

_“Steve is still here… he is very red faced—like a tomato, yes?”_

I peeked out from behind Pietro’s back, my eyes wide as they flicked around the room—unable to look directly at our teammate. Waves of embarrassment were radiating off him—so strong that I could _feel_ them from across the room.

He cleared his throat. “Um… about this… uh—”

“STEVE! Don’t keep us waiting—” Bucky’s demanding voice carried down the hallway. “TWINS—get out!”

“I… uh…” Rogers mumbled, backing out of the kitchen, “yeah… see you two back at the compound.”

 I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding as he bolted from the room. “Come on, let’s get—Pietro! Stop that! What are you—”

“It is a shame to let it go to waste, yes? You worked very hard on it.” My brother shot me an angelic look, shoving a cookie in his mouth—I smacked him on the shoulder, then grabbed his hand, towing him towards the door. “Wanda! Aren’t you going to clean up—”

“I most certainly am not! We are leaving—now!” Jerking the door open, I started tugging him down the walk—he planted his feet, refusing to move. “Pietro!”

“Don’t huff at me—I have to lock the door, Wanda.” He dug in his pocket, producing a key ring—holding it up for me to see.

“You have a key? I thought you picked the lock!”

“You _assumed_   I picked the lock—that is your fault, not mine,” he shot back, turning to secure the door.

“Where did you get this key?”

He grinned. “I might have stolen it off of Romanov’s key chain and had a copy made. She didn’t even realize it was gone.”

“You _knew_ about them?” I asked incredulously.

“Of course—well.. no... I mean… I didn’t know about Rogers, but I knew Romanov and Bucky were together. It’s obvious.”

“Clearly it isn’t or I would have known—”

“Perhaps I just recognized the look in his eyes when he watches her,” he said softly. “He looks at her like she is the only woman in the world… the same way I look at you.”

My cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Sweet talking me will not get you out of hot water, my brother… you have been keeping secrets from me—”

“This wasn’t my secret to tell,” he said, twirling a strand of my hair around his finger. “She is good for him… she is helping him remember what it is like to be free, yes?”

 “This is true… you must know I do not begrudge them the happiness in the slightest.” I stretched up to kiss the tip of his nose. “I just don’t like secrets between us.”

“It is very surprising Rogers was there… I thought he was far too… hmmm… old fashioned for such things,” he murmured.

 “I knew there was love there… I just mistakenly thought it was purely platonic. That it is more… well… I think this is a very good thing. Steve is a part of what Bucky needs, my brother—reminding him of the time before HYDRA.  Reminding him of the man he was before _Ivendalo Katána_ was formed.” I smiled, wrapping my arms around his waist. “There is no better healing than being surrounded by love.”

He nodded, his mind brushing mine as his head ducked down, his lips claiming mine.  _“We will speak of this no more… it is their secret to cherish, yes?”_

 _“Of course—the others… they are trying very hard, but still… they do not understand that love transcends labels and boundaries.”_  I chuckled against his lips, slowly pulling away. _“Knowing this about Steve… I think it would blow their minds.”_

A wave of amusement lapped against my skin as Pietro’s thoughts abruptly vanished from my mind—replaced by the familiar buzz that told me his mind was racing as fast and fleetly as his feet. Tilting my head back, I gazed up at him—his lips were curved up in a mischievous, trouble making grin.

“Whatever you are contemplating, Pietro Maximoff… _don’t.”_

He huffed. “I was only going to tease him a _little_   bit, Wanda—he deserves it… don’t you think?”

I didn’t have to ask who he meant—at first Rogers had made a fuss about our relationship, but he’d really _tried_   to move past his prejudices, and as a result, he was slowly coming to accept it. “If you tease him about this… it implies that you think there is something he should be embarrassed or ashamed about, my brother. Do you want him thinking we are hypocrites when it comes to the ways of love?”

His smile faded—he shook his head. “I did not think of this… you are right, sweet sister. I swear to you I will hold my tongue. That is… if you promise to make me some of those cookies when we get home.”

_”Of course—and perhaps  I will give you an even sweeter reward for making such a promise, yes?”_

His anticipation rolled through me as he swept me up into his arms—speeding back towards the compound; I closed my eyes, nestling my head in the crook of his neck as I sent up a silent plea to whoever might be listening. During our time locked within Hydra’s cells, there had been only person who’d showed us any measure of kindness—a man who had acted without a single thought of self-preservation, ignoring the horrible danger he placed himself in by breaking the rules.  And when the worst happened and Von Strucker found out that he’d been passing messages between our cages, Bucky Barnes did not betray our trust—he held his tongue, refusing to speak.

They tortured him for showing kindness—they abused him with agonizing, excruciating pain for disobeying their demands.

Pietro and I… we owed him a blood debt—but he’d suffered so greatly because of us that in truth… there was no way we would ever be able to repay him.

I prayed with all my heart that Natasha and Steve would succeed in healing the wounds HYDRA had inflicted—that they could convince him that deep inside…  he is still a good, kind man. I prayed he would find the solace and peace he craved, stilling the voices that haunted him—and I prayed he would find happiness in their arms, embracing the beauty of life and love instead of the cold, bleak callousness of memory.

Bucky Barnes _deserved_   all the good things that life had to offer—I just hoped Natasha and Steve could make him see that bright, shining, undeniable truth.

And when that happened? Well, maybe… just maybe… 

  _a tiny bit of the guilt Pietro and I carried would be washed from our shared soul._

* * *

>  
> 
> I am sure by now many of you are wondering if perhaps my mind has wandered—you think that I am rambling, spewing out words with no purpose to my tale. I am sorry, but you are very, very wrong—every swato has a lesson woven into its midst, and it is up to the listener to decipher the true meaning.
> 
> Perhaps I sought to teach you not to judge based on what you see—far too often our eyes deceive us, obscuring the truth with a mask that blinds us. Maybe my point was that secrets belong solely to their owners and should never be shared—whispered tidbits become rumors, changing shape as they spread until nary a glimmer of truth remains in the telling.
> 
> Of course, the lesson could be a far simpler thing—staring you right in the face; as I said in the beginning, sometimes good deeds blow up and harm the Samaritan—just look at poor Bucky Barnes and how he suffered when he tried to help two terrified siblings that were locked away from the world. Even then, the pointless cruelty he experienced could not destroy the kernels of kindness he held deep within.
> 
> Which lesson did you learn? Dare I hope all three? Regardless, I will offer you two more.
> 
> Be kind to each other, my friends—and accept the beautiful magic of love in   _all_  its forms.
> 
> —Wanda Maximoff

 


	28. The Masquerade

_This one is for Pally the Second—who requested 'Pietro and Wanda dress-up as Luke and Leia (from star wars) for Halloween, but they add there own ending to the movie' on October 17th of last year.  Sorry it took so long to post it—I was waiting for Halloween to roll around again. Hope it was worth the long wait!_

 

* * *

 

_Tony Stark had a longstanding tradition—without fail, once a year, he hosted a massive party for the crème de la crème of society. The invitations to his little soirees were coveted by many—in part because the guest list was comprised of the best of the best; they were the movers and shakers in their industries—those who had the money and power to change the world. Under the guise of polite conversation, deals would be made, and information exchanged; inevitably, in some shadowy corner, fortunes would be lost and won._

_Normally, the billionaire held these little gatherings to ring in the new year—an occasion when champagne flowed like water, loosening tongues and inhibitions, but this year… he decided it was time for a change. A costume party—and what better time could there be than Halloween?_

_[As soon as he clued Pepper in on his little scheme, she tried to talk him out of it—unfortunately for his teammates, her protests fell on deaf ears.]_

_Specific costumes were made for each of his teammates—beautiful, intricately detailed pieces, each tailored to fit a unique theme; he didn’t hand them out until the day of the event—it was a calculated move on his part so that no one (aka Romanov) could pitch a fit and refuse._

_That’s where our little story begins…_

 

**SOME PEOPLE THRIVE** on excitement and change—they enjoy doing things on the spur of the moment; they are the people who abhor the very idea of making plans in advance or the ‘drudgery’ of doing the same thing every day.

I am _not_   one of those people.

I thrive on the comfort familiar routine offers me, perhaps because having certain chores we performed on a schedule provided Pietro and I with a sense of stability and normalcy when we were children living on the streets. The surest way to throw me off balance is to spring something on me at the last minute—which happens to be exactly what Tony Stark did when he showed up at the compound for an unexpected meeting on the day before Halloween.

As soon as we entered the conference room, I started feeling off kilter; we’d missed his big announcement, but our teammates thoughts slammed into me—some were annoyed, some were amused, while one or two were outright _dismayed._

“What did we miss?” Pietro steered me towards a chair, plopping down beside me—automatically taking my hand to assuage my unease.

“Every year Stark has a huge party on New Year’s Eve—”

“It’s a tradition—a little gift to my friends and the people I do business with.” Stark cut Barton off, flashing the room a charming grin; his charm was completely wasted—I didn’t buy into it for a single second. “However this year I thought a Halloween party would be better—I was just about to hand out everyone’s costumes.”

I shifted, uncomfortable with the idea—automatically racking my brain for a way to politely bow out. “So… this party is tomorrow night?”

“No—it’s tonight. Everyone will start arriving in—” he glanced at his watch, “—an hour and a half, give or take. You all need to be dressed and downstairs by then.”

“No.”

He looked amused by my statement. “No what?”

“No—I cannot attend on such short notice.” Every muscle in my body was tense—my teeth clenched together so hard that my jaw ached.

“And why is that? Pressing engagement?” The shiny veneer of his smile thinned a bit—he wasn’t used to hearing the word ‘no’.

“Not at all—but being in a room full of strangers is difficult for me. I have to know in advance… so I have time to focus and prepare.”

“Prepare for what? It’s just a party—”

“For you maybe—for me it is like standing on the stage in a concert hall with a fully packed house, only I am the one who is silent while the audience is screaming. You have no idea what it is like—being beset by so many strange minds at once.” Pietro’s arm slid around my shoulders—I leaned against him, scowling at Stark. “It takes intense concentration to keep out so many thoughts.”

“I don’t think you understand—you should consider this a public relations event. It’s a goodwill gesture—the guests are the people who we have to win over. The team needs their support.”

“My sister’s mental wellbeing is more important than brown nosing politicians and money men,” Pietro snapped, shooting him a venomous glare; if looks could kill, Stark would have dropped dead right on the spot.

“Thirty minutes—you can manage that, can’t you? You don’t even have to talk to anyone—just circle the room, smiling and nodding. They want to see the newest members of the team.” His voice was soft—cajoling, even. “I even had special costumes made based on a twin theme.”

“You did?” I arched a brow—intrigued at the notion, despite my reluctance.

“I did—” He flashed a smile again, pointing to the garment bags on the rolling cart behind him. “Luke and Leia, the twins from the Star Wars movie. So what do you say? Have you got enough control to make it through thirty minutes?”

“I will think about it.” I murmured, feeling torn; Pietro’s excitement was brushing up against me, making it hard to say no.

He shrugged, reaching for two of the garment bags. “Here—go upstairs and center yourself or… whatever.”

Pietro scooped me up, speeding over to snatch the bags out of his hand enthusiastically—racing towards our room.

“You want to go,” I said softly as soon as my feet hit the ground.

“No—”

“You do—I can tell.” I sighed, reaching for the bag with my name on it. “I’ll try it on—”

“Wanda, really—we don’t have to go.” His arms wrapped around my waist, holding me in place.

“I can manage thirty minutes,” I murmured, pulling away. “But if you don’t let me go so I can shower and start preparing myself—”

“Are you sure?”

I huffed in response. “We are going—don’t ask me again. Now let me go so I can get ready—”

“I need a shower too, you know.” His head ducked down, lips exploring my neck. “We could save time—”

“No! We only have an hour and a half, remember?” God above knows how tempted I was by the offer, but if we showered together, the chance of making the deadline we’d been given would definitely be slim to none.

“I can be fast—”

“And leave me all floaty and unable to think, let alone walk.” I chuckled, pushing him away. “You can use your speed to shower and get ready _after_ I am dressed.”

Ignoring his adorable sulk, I hurried toward the bathroom, jumping into the shower before I could change my mind and relent.

In hindsight, I probably should have examined the costume before agreeing to anything; when I unzipped the garment bag and saw what it contained, I was at a loss. For a moment, I wondered if part of the outfit was missing—because surely there was no way on earth Stark would expect me to wear what looked like a bra with a stylized metal caprice adorning it and two flimsy scraps of fabric attached to a thin, decorative metal strap.  A smaller bag hung from a small hook inside the interior; my anger spiked when I peeked inside—it held a collar and chain.

“Pietro—I do not think I will be attending this party.” I called through the door; a moment later the doorknob rattled—he cursed when he realized it was locked.

“What’s wrong?”

“I am _not_ wearing this costume.”

“Don’t be silly—you will look beautiful!”

“It is indecent, Pietro!” Dropping my towel, I grabbed the accursed thing, sliding it on—knowing once he saw it he would be just as furious as I was.

“Indecent—how? It’s like a Karate gi—”

“Maybe _yours_  is—” I said, jerking open the door, “—but _mine_   isn’t!”

His eyes locked on my body, traveling from where my breasts spilled out of the barely there bra, down to my bare hips, adorned by only the tiny metal waistband that held up the material that covered my female bits. “Where… is the rest of it?”

“This is _all_ of it—except for the _collar_   and _chain_   for my neck.”

His cheeks turned bright red—his rage scalded my skin; I reached out, grabbing his arm before he could speed away. “He thinks he can dress you like some kind of _slave?_  A _whore_   slave at that! I will _kill_ him.” His voice was low and dangerous—I could feel his control snapping as his fury rolled between us, as thick and toxic as radioactive sludge. “I will rip him to _pieces—_ ”

“No—don’t you see? He _wants_   to provoke us—wouldn’t it be better to just disappoint him?” I said softly, moving closer so I could nuzzle along his jaw. “We will simply stay up here—”

“No…” He narrowed his eyes, glancing over to the bed—his costume was laid out, waiting for him to shower. “Put that on.”

“But… what will you wear?” I froze as his mind brushed mine—laughter bubbling up inside me at the images he conveyed. “Pietro… you wouldn’t!”

His lips twitched up in a wicked little smile. “I would. He will be furious, yes? To have such a spectacle at his fancy party? It will _humiliate_ him in front of all his hoity-toity friends.”

I brushed my lips against his, returning his smile with one of my own. “You are a genius, my brother. Go shower—we have a party to attend, yes?”

 

**_Meanwhile, several floors below:_ **

**OUT OF ALL THE AVENGERS** in attendance, Steve was probably the most pleased with his costume; the old time baseball uniform reminded him of his childhood, back in the days before commercialism and technology spoiled the purity of the game. Banner was actually smiling and laughing—fully appreciating the ironic symbolism of Stark’s choice; he was indeed the mild mannered Doctor Jekyll, with a raging Hyde trapped inside. Clint, on the other hand, was still bitching about the tights—refusing to admit that for an archer, Robin Hood was a pretty damned clever choice. Surprisingly, his Maid Marion didn’t seem to mind the medieval dress she’d been given—Romanov was actually grateful Stark had chosen something relatively modest instead of providing some kind of sexist, body baring get up.

_[Of course… she was giving him way too much credit—forgetting for a moment that now there was another curvaceous female on the team.]_

 And Stark? Sherlock Holmes was puffing on a pipe—watching the entrance to the large room with gleeful anticipation; he was off the market, but he wasn’t dead—any man with a pulse couldn’t help but notice Wanda Maximoff’s considerable… assets, which, thanks to his brilliance, would be prominently displayed.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Banner said, offering him a drink.

“That’s because he’s planning something.” Barton crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall.

Stark smiled. “You wound me—I’m just happy to see everyone having a good time.”

“Sure you are… and you’re watching the door has nothing to do with waiting for the kids to appear in their costumes…”

“Of course not,” he feigned innocence, “though I hope they decide to attend.”

“Tell me… which movie did you chose?”

“Excuse me?”

“Which movie is Leia’s costume from?” Barton said slowly, narrowing his eyes; Natasha’s mouth dropped open as she put two and two together, catching her best friend’s gist. Immediately, she groaned, mumbling something under her breath in Russian.

“I’m not sure what you mean—”

“Long white dress… or slave get up?”

“Oh my God.” Banner set his drink down, slowly edging away. “Sorry—I can’t afford to be anywhere near you. I plan on staying Jekyll tonight—I don’t want her anywhere near my mind.”

 

“Did it ever occur to you that having her put on a slave collar might be in bad taste?” Sam’s disgust was evident, in his voice and on his face.

“It’s from a movie, for Christ’s sake—a classic!”

“You realize if her brother attacks your ass, none of us are going to step in, right?” Sam shot Stark a less than friendly look, shaking his head. “It’s not bad enough that you’re being a chauvinistic letch, but you’ve gotta push it even more—it’s like making a Jewish person dress up in Auschwitz prison gear.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Wanda is Romani,” Steve shifted, his eyes flicking around the room; adrenaline pumped through his system as his body prepared for the fight that was bound to break out as soon as Pietro entered the room. “They were enslaved for centuries in Europe—and here in America too.”

Stark frowned—he actually hadn’t thought about that particular aspect at all. “It’s a twin costume—you’re all reading too much into it—”

“You better hope so,” Sam shrugged. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to risk pissing the two of them off—not now, when they finally seem to be letting go of their grudge.”

“Good evening everyone—you look very festive.”

“Oh shit—are you kidding me?” Clint groaned, closing his eyes. “Tony—”

“What? Han Solo goes with the Star Wars theme,” Tony muttered defensively, grabbing another drink as a waiter passed by.

“He is the dashing space pirate who wins the princess in the end,” Vision said, smiling as his eyes swept the crowd. “Is she here yet?”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up, man,” Wilson said, shooting Stark another unfriendly look.

Before the android could ask him to elaborate, the doors at the end of the hall swung open; abruptly, the muted murmur of conversation in the room died, replaced by the heavy press of shocked silence.

 “With all due respect… I do not want that princess,” Vision said bluntly, edging away—disappearing into the crowd.

“I don’t believe this,” Stark muttered, shooting a murderous look at Romanov and Barton as they started to laugh.

“Looks like their training is starting to pay off.” Steve smiled, feeling a surge of pride as his eyes locked on the figures standing in the doorway. “They’re learning to control their anger.”

Sam’s grim expression faded, a slow, lazy smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Too bad… seeing the kid rip Tony a new one might have made up for me having to wear this get up.”

“I think you should wear leather more often—it suits you,” Nat flashed him a teasing smile, reaching over to run her fingers over the intricately detailed chest plate of his centurion costume.

As the crowd shifted, making way for the newcomers, the shocked silence gave way to appreciative murmurs as they stepped into the room.

_The Maximoffs had arrived._

**I’D KNOWN OUR ENTRANCE** would cause a commotion—how could it not when almost every inch of my brother’s beautiful body was completely on display to so many eyes? Ignoring the stares of the costumed guests around us, my eyes locked on Stark as I led Pietro across the room, tugging gently on his chain.

The crowd parted before us, people murmuring under their breath as they moved out of our way. Despite the fact the white gi covered everything, I still felt self-conscious as I moved; the garment had been tailored for my brothers, leanly muscled form—it clung to my curves, accentuating far more of my body than I liked.

 “Thank you for the lovely costumes, Tony.” My voice was sweet, not betraying the bubbling anger that rolled inside me.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stark’s face turned bright red as his eyes flicked between Pietro and me.

“Attending your party as you requested… isn’t that what you wanted?” Pietro asked, arching a brow.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Stark growled. “Those bags were clearly labeled with your names—”

“We assumed that was a mistake,” I interrupted—I could not stop my lips from curving up in a smug little smile. “It was apparent that the seamstress misunderstood your intentions.”

“You are being too polite, Wanda—let me say it more clearly.” Pietro stepped closer, invading the billionaire’s personal space. “You should be _grateful_   we are giving you the benefit of the doubt in this matter, Stark. You see… if I thought that you were trying to put my sister’s body on display for your guests… treating her like a common _whore_ … I would _kill_   you.”

Stark paled—obviously wise enough to know that Pietro’s words were not just an idle threat, but a _promise_   he would very much enact without hesitation. “That certainly wasn’t my intention, I assure you—”

“As I said… a simple misunderstanding—one that won’t happen again, yes?” My smile widened as I gathered up the slack in the length of the chain, glancing around the room. “If you will excuse us, I believe you said you wanted us to circulate—unless you’ve changed your mind and want us to waste all thirty minutes standing here talking to you?”

I turned away without waiting for a response—struggling to contain the laughter that was bubbling up inside me at the expression on his face; it was a rare occurrence to see the normally unflappable Tony Stark in such a tizzy, rarer still to see such a verbose man completely at a loss for words.  The rich man was fit to be tied—completely unaccustomed to having his silly little schemes blow up in his face.  

Pietro’s amusement brushed along my skin, mirroring my own; it cooled the heat of his anger, easing back his murderous thoughts. Affixing a polite—yet decidedly aloof—smile on my face, I slowly wove through the guests, making a slow rotation of the room; the immense hall was overflowing with bodies, so the occasional accidental brush of a hand or elbow was inevitable, but for once, I had no problem shutting out the dissonance of so many restless—and in some cases, tipsy—minds.

Despite the fact I’d had almost no time to prepare for attending the gathering, my own mind was far too occupied to bother with such trivial, inconsequential things as the cacophony of thoughts that surrounded me; Tony Stark had unwittingly provided me with the best form of distraction imaginable—one that trailed in my wake, radiating like a lone beacon, guiding a lost ship home in the ink black darkness of night. My brother’s delicious bare skin was like a siren song, commanding my attention—filling my thoughts with the promise of the bountiful reward I would reap upon returning to our suite; illicit images danced through my head, triggering sensory memories that made my body practically _ache_ with need.

Behind me, Pietro chuckled; the sound danced up and down my spine as if it had a tangible, physical presence, like the caress of his strong, teasing fingers kneading my skin.

_“Penny for your thoughts. Pietra.”_

Things low in my body tightened in response to the husky purr of his thoughts; my face heated—immediately, I tried to throw up a wall around my mind. “Behave.”

He shattered my temporary barrier in an instant—his amusement a warm wave rolling through every part of my being. _“Are you thinking naughty things, sweet sister?”_

_“Perhaps I am simply thinking that I cannot wait for thirty minutes to be over so I can remove that wretched slave collar and this horrid chain.”_ I tossed him a haughty look over my shoulder, tugging at the links of metal between us.

_“Even without the collar I am your slave, Pietra—you should know this by now.”_

I stopped walking abruptly—so shocked by his statement that I spoke aloud without thinking. “Pietro! You take that back—it is a horrible thing to say!”

_“Careful, sweet sister… people are listening—”_

_“I do not care! You are not my slave! Take it back right now!”_

_“I will not—it is the truth. I am a slave to your love, Wanda—I have been all our lives. But I do not mind being enslaved—the chains that bind me are woven into my soul. They are comprised of the passion we share… of hungry kisses and soft, gentle caresses… the warmth of your body molded against mine.”_

My cheeks heated again at his pretty words—even as they soothed away my indignation, they stoked the flames of my arousal, making me yearn for his touch. _“I am ensnared just as surely as you are, my brother—with chains so strong they will never, ever break.”_

His beautifully shaped lips curved up in a smile—the one that was special, reserved just for me. _“I know this, Pietra—now, do you think you can keep your mind on the party and off of naughty things for a little while longer? Your thoughts are very graphic… they are starting to affect me in a way that is impossible to hide in this costume.”_

My gaze automatically dropped to his groin—eyes widening as I processed exactly what he meant; his predicament was _extremely_ obvious—and to make matters worse, the sight of his arousal spiked my own even higher, making it hard for me to _think._ I could _feel_ his body calling out to me, demanding I reach out and run my fingertips along the firm muscles of his thigh… slowly drifting higher up to caress—

I tensed— _that_   particular thought had not been _mine._

My reaction was instantaneous—motivated by pure instinct; white hot anger rolled through me, awakening the power that resided inside me—I jerked the chain far harder than I intended, catching Pietro completely off guard. Head blind from my sudden surge of emotion, he lurched towards me, his body slamming into mine so hard that we might have ended up in a heap on the floor were it not for his agile reflexes.

“Wanda, what—”

The sudden movement had not deterred the interloper; unfazed, she moved closer, her hand outstretched—completely unaware of the danger she was in. Even before I touched her, my hand began to glow—she let out a hiss of pain as it closed around her wrist, as if the mere press of my palm was a searing brand, burning her skin.

I hoped it was.

“ _Mine._ ” The word was an angry growl—escaping me before I could stop it.

“Let go of me! How dare you—”

“You think you have the right to touch him just because of a costume?” I spat out, releasing my grip on the chain—raising my hand towards her temple. “I think perhaps you need a lesson in manners, madam—so you will not make such a mistake again!”

“Wanda—stand down! That’s an order!”

The command left no room for refusal—the look on Steve’s face was grim as his eyes locked with mine. Gritting my teeth, I released the woman—immediately Pietro tugged me backwards, wrapping me in his arms. “She was reaching for his—”

“We’ll discuss it outside.” His eyes flicked to the woman—his handsome face clearly conveying his disapproval as he attempted to steer us towards the door.

“She attacked me!” The woman shrieked, sounding incensed. “For no reason!”

“Mrs. Thermopolis… I think it’s time for you to leave.” At the sound of Stark’s voice, I glanced back over my shoulder— his face was devoid of emotion, but his words were tinged with anger. “Your invitation has been _revoked.”_

“Did he actually just take up for us?” I asked, glancing at Steve.

“He did—we’re his guests too, Wanda. He wants everyone to have a good time.” Rogers guided us through the door, heading further into the facility—an area where no guest were allowed to roam. “I don’t think he stopped to consider that the costumes he provided might lead to a… confrontation.”

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” I said softly, averting my eyes. I did not particularly care about my actions offending Stark, but disappointing Steve was an entirely different thing; since we’d joined the team he’d gone out of his way to make us feel welcome, spending countless hours trying to help us master our abilities, becoming the best that we could be. “Her thoughts… they caught me off guard. When she moved—”

“You don’t have to explain—I understand, kid.” His lips curved up in a faint grin. “What you just did is mild—last year, Nat broke a guy’s nose when he ‘accidentally’ groped her.”

Since what I thought about doing to the woman’s mind was considerably worse, I wisely held my tongue; Pietro’s hand slipped into mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for defending my honor, sister.”

I huffed at the amusement in his voice. “You think it is funny?”

_“Not funny at all, Pietra—seeing you so possessive is a very arousing thing.”_

I ducked my head to hide the blush that raced across my cheeks, hoping to keep Rogers from spotting it; his snort clearly indicated that my embarrassment had not escaped detection. “The two of you are excused for the rest of the night—I think Stark will understand, given what just happened in there.”

Pietro let out a happy yip, scooping me up off my feet, but Rogers reached out, grasping his shoulder before he could speed away. “I know it’s hard work, learning to control your emotions… but it’s starting to pay off. I’m proud of the way you two handled the situation with the costumes.”

“It is because you are a good influence on my hotheaded brother,” I offered, my lips curving up in a teasing smile.

“This is true… whenever I start to lose my temper, I ask myself, ‘what would the Captain do?’.” Pietro nodded, practically beaming in response to Steve’s statement.

My eyes filled with tears at the happiness that filled him; it had been such a long time since he had anyone to look up to. “Thank you for that… for giving him a role model again.”

Rogers cheeks flushed with color.“I don’t know how good a role model I am—”

“The best kind! You are Captain America!” Pietro’s eyes widened—for a moment, buzzing static filled my thoughts as he became a vibrating blur, quivering with excitement. “You stand for everything good about this country!”

“Don’t put anyone up on a pedestal, son—especially not me. I make mistakes, the same as anyone else.” The smile he flashed us seemed to belong to someone half his age, filled with the sort of boyish charm that he rarely exposed to anyone other than Bucky. “Now go on… I’ve got to get back to the party. Enjoy the rest of your evening—”

Pietro was in motion before he finished speaking—sprinting towards our suite at top speed; chuckling softly, I closed my eyes, allowing my lips to explore the soft skin beneath his ear. The buzzing static of his mind faded abruptly as he slowed, hesitating outside our room; I opened my eyes, unable to resist teasing him—just a little.

“Is there a problem, Pietro? Perhaps you’ve forgotten how to work the doorknob?”

“Hardly—I want you to do something for me… close your eyes and keep them closed until I tell you to open them.”

“What are you up to, my brother?” Anticipation was practically oozing from his pores; I sucked on his earlobe, earning a throaty moan in response.

“That is for me to know and you to find out—you will humor me, yes?” he murmured, turning his head to nuzzle my cheek for a moment before speeding into the suite. My acquiescence was a given—even had he not been able to sense it, he knew I found it impossible to refuse any request he made. 

When my feet hit the floor, I kept my eyes tightly closed—an attempt to overcome the overwhelming urge to peek; a heartbeat later, I giggled as Pietro let out a hiss of displeasure, impatiently tugging off my costume.

“Too many layers!”

“I can help—”

“No! Eyes closed!” The fabric fell away—I shivered, my bare skin chilled by the coolness of the air conditioned room.

His warm hand captured mine, tugging me forward—I moved without thought, trusting that he would not let me fall. I heard the squeak of bedsprings as he settled himself, then he tugged me into his lap—an appreciative noise escaped me at the press of his body against mine.

“Can I open my eyes ye—” I let out a shriek as something cold and hard brushed against my skin. “Pietro! What is that?”

“Patience, sweet sister… I am almost done… okay—open your eyes.”

I blinked—his face was inches from mine, a pleased smile curving up his lips. “Given our discussion… I thought it would be appropriate.”

My eyes dropped—he’d removed all of his costume except the collar and chain, wrapping the metal links around both of us, binding our bodies together. “It is… very symbolic.”

His smile faded, a look of remorse flicking across his face. “You do not like it… you want me to remove it.”

I stilled his hands as he reached for the chain. “No… I do not want that _at all_ , Beloved.”

“Then… what?”

“Well… I was just thinking… if you are my _love_  slave, then surely this means you must do whatever I want, yes? You know all those naughty things I was remembering earlier?” I closed the distance between our lips, brushing mine against his. “I want to relieve every single one of them… even if it takes all night.”

“If we do all that you _really_ might have trouble walking tomorrow, Pietra” he mumbled; it was an empty protest—even as it left his lips. he thrust up, filling me completely.

I moaned softly against his lips, rocking myself against him. “Then you will carry me, yes?”

“Touché,” he murmured—then he let loose, moving so fast that instantly, waves of pleasure rolled through me; colored spots stole my vision as I clung to him, my sounds of pleasure echoing through the room.

It was the first climax of many—my Pietro… his stamina… it is a very amazing thing. It goes without saying that I am a _very_ lucky girl—his gifts are good for so much more than just running… if you know what I mean.

Oh, and for the record?

By the time we were finished, I could barely move—he had to carry me around for almost a _week_.

—W.M.


End file.
